The Child Lives On
by SonofNorm
Summary: If Emily had just walked by that remote cottage in the woods, with the eccentric old lady sitting out front, she might have lived a normal life, or what passed for normal in 18th century England. However, like a certain little girl who became famous later on, she was curious.
1. Chapter 1

The Child LIves On

Chapter One

Emily was on tiptoes, peering over the windowsill, watching the mob as it marched up the lane toward the house. Torches cast eerie shadows while the sounds of angry voices grew louder and louder.

I stepped into the bedroom, slipping on my gloves. "Emily, sweetheart, what are you doing?"

"Perhaps I can reason with them," she murmured.

"Reason with them? Don't be silly. You can't reason with a mob."

Clive knocked on the open door. "Are your ready, Miss Clara?" he asked. 'Your Father is getting anxious."

"We're on our way," I said. "Will you grab our bags?"

"Bags?"

"By the door."

With a nod, he picked up two heavy cloth-bags and hurried away.

Daddy was pacing when Emily and I stepped out the back door. An army of men from neighboring farms surrounded him. Each had a weapon. Bessie, our old plow-horse, was hooked up to the wagon. "You don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation," said Daddy, while lifting Emily into the wagon. She settled down into the hay, pulling out her knitting, as if we were sitting in our cozy chairs by the fire.

"But Daddy," I said, "we were moving as fast as we could."

Clive picked me up and set me in the wagon. "I apologize for the impertinence, Miss Clara," he said, 'but we have to get out of here."

Jumping on board, he grabbed the reins and urged Bessie on. The jerk of the wagon caused me to fall backwards. I sat up, picking hay out of my bonnet and hair.

"Love you, Daddy," I called out.

"Stay safe, honey," was his response.

A shout, "Back here!" and more shouting, shots fired, and the sounds of scuffling startled and frightened us. The knitting was forgotten. Rough hands grasped the wagon. Savage faces appeared and disappeared. Grunts, groans and gruff voices filled up our ears. Clive jumped to his feet. "Grab the reins," he shouted, disappearing into the night. Scrambling up front, I took hold of the reins and tapped Bessie's rump with the tip of the whip. It didn't help. She just plodded along in blissful ignorance. Darkness lay ahead. Dancing torch-lights fell further and further behind.

The raucous noise of the melee faded away, leaving only the rhythmic clomp and clang of horse and wagon. Someone climbed on board. I lifted the whip, ready to strike. "It's only me," said Clive. With a sigh of relief, I handed over the reins, rejoining Emily in the back. On a road full of twists and turns, difficult enough in daylight, Clive bravely saw us through in the darkness.

Winwood Inn was old, run down and in need of repair. The interior, however, was clean and tidy. An elderly couple, the Winwoods, welcomed us with friendly smiles. White-haired and stooped, Mr. Winwood shuffled about with a cane. Plump Mrs. Winwood was full of helpful energy. "Would you like some tea while I make up the beds?" she asked.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said. "Tea would be most welcome."

In a comfortable sitting room, Mr. Winwood kept us company, regaling us with stories of his youth, which I'm sure were quite amusing. I, however, was only half-listening. My mind was miles away. I was born in that farmhouse. I had spent my whole life under its roof. Would I ever see it again?

* * *

Awakened by a loud persistent banging, I stumbled out of bed, donned a robe, lit a candle on the third try, burning my fingers, and made my way to the bedroom door. A man stood before me, indistinct in the candlelight, wearing some kind of military uniform. "Are you Clara Denton?" he asked

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Daughter of Richard and Adeline Denton?"

"Yes, sir."

He thrust a note into my hand. "Is this your father's handwriting?"

I examined the note, dripping wax on the paper. "Yes, sir. I believe it is."

"We must leave immediately."

"Why?"

"Your home was burned to the ground tonight. The marauders are headed this way."

Panic took hold of me. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Breath was hard to find. "No!" I gasped. "It can't be! I have to go home. Mama and Daddy need me." I tried to push past him. He blocked my way. "Please move, sir. I have to go home."

"No," he said. "You mustn't return. I am to escort you to Glastonbury."

"Glastonbury?" Stunned, I simply stared at him, perplexed. "Aunt Celia's?"

"Celia Embry was the name given."

"We won't be welcome there."

The Denton siblings, Richard, Celia and Abigail, were close-knit until Abigail ran off to Portsmouth and married André Charbonneau, a Frenchman. Celia never spoke to her sister again. When Emily was born, her aunt refused to acknowledge her existence.

"I'll give you five minutes to dress," said the man. "I've already roused your servant. Make haste."

"Wait, wait!" I said. "What's your name?"

"Lieutenant Gordon Sommersby."

"We'll be right with you, Lieutenant."

Closing the door, I rushed to Emily. Her little legs were dangling over the side of the bed. She was rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "Emily, dear," I said, "hurry and dress."

"I had a bad dream," she murmured.

"What dream?"

"An angry mob was after me."

"That wasn't a dream."

"Oh, I was hoping it was." She hopped off the bed and fumbled with her nightgown. "Was somebody here?"

"A man has come to escort us to Glastonbury."

"Do we know him?"

"No."

"Can we trust him?"

"He had a note from Daddy. I think we can trust him."

We hurried into our traveling clothes, packing up our bags in the process.

"Did you say Glastonbury?" she asked, while tying her bonnet.

"Yes."

"Aunt Celia's?"

"Um hmm."

"She'll turn us away."

"Daddy believes otherwise."

"Can't we just go home?"

"Home no longer exists."

"Huh?"

"The mob burned it to the ground."

Sinking to the floor, she buried her face in her hands. "No!" she cried. "It can't be true!"

"Emily, my dear, we have to hurry."

"Why did this happen?" she sobbed. "I was only trying to help people."

"We don't have time for this."

A plaintive wail escaped her lips, "Why? Why? Why?"

"Don't go to pieces on me, sweetheart." I picked her up and carried her from the room. Her tears dampened the side of my face and neck.

Mrs. Winwood met us at the door of the inn. I placed some coins into her hand. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I said. "We've had a change of plans."

"Do not fret, my dear," she said. "Take care of that precious child."

Just as we were getting under way, the trouble began. A mob, carrying torches and weapons, was running swiftly in our direction. The men of the village, having been forewarned, were waiting with weapons of their own. After hiding Emily and I in the wagon, covering us with hay, and telling us to stay down, Clive and the lieutenant joined in the fray. With a mixture of horror and fascination, I watched a mass of shadowy figures converge and brawl in the torch-light.

"Did those men follow us here?" asked Emily, peeking over the side of the wagon.

I just about jumped out of my skin. "Ah!" I said. "You're back."

"Sorry. I'm worthless in a crisis."

"Have you ever had a crisis before?"

"Um… no."

"Me either."

While we were casually chatting, the brawl was moving toward us. The sounds of metal upon metal and flesh upon flesh grew louder and louder, making me cringe. Other than Clive and the lieutenant, I couldn't tell which side was which.

"I wonder who's winning," said Emily.

"My money's on the lieutenant," I said.

"Which one is he?"

"Across the way. On the horse. See him?"

"With the sword?"

"That's right."

"Clive doesn't need a sword. He just knocks them down with his big fists."

"The lieutenant is doing just fine, thank you."

"I didn't say he wasn't."

"Wait a minute. Is that Mr. Winwood swinging his cane around?"

Emily jumped to her feet. "Oh no! He's going to get hurt. Watch out, Mr. Winwood!"

Just as she was calling out, one of the rioters slugged the old man and sent him sprawling. Before I could stop her, she was out of the wagon. "Wait, Emily!" I cried. "Don't." As I began to give chase, a torch fell nearby, lighting some hay on fire. I picked it up and moved it to a barren spot. While thus occupied, I noticed the torches scattered all over the place. As quickly as I could, I gathered them up and put them in a pile, starting a bonfire in the process. Meanwhile, Emily was weaving her way through the fray to help Mr. Winwood. Before she could reach him, a big burly brute grabbed her and picked her up. Letting out a loud piercing scream, she kicked her little legs and feet. Forgetting the torches, I ran to save her, not knowing just how I was going to do it. Fortunately, Clive was behind the brute, and hit him over the head with a rock. The brute fell to the ground, dropping Emily. I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the way, scolding her for her recklessness. We hid behind some barrels. While there, I heard a sound like thunder - so loud, I had to cover my ears. Curious, I peeked over the tops of the barrels. What I saw thrilled me to no end. The village square was filled with uniformed men on horseback.

* * *

The morning sun was peeking over the horizon when the wagon stopped in front of an inn. Clive jumped to the ground and undid Bessie's harness. My hair was damp with dew. Hay was sticking to me. I picked it off, straw by straw. "I feel like something the cat dragged in," I said. "I must look a fright."

"You look fine," said Emily, yawning and stretching.

I glanced at her with a little touch of envy. A quick brush of her auburn curls, and Emily was, as usual, cute and adorable.

Lieutenant Sommersby appeared beside the wagon. "We're stopping to rest the horses," he said. "We'll breakfast at the inn."

In the daylight, the man took my breath away. A misty glow surrounded him. His tall muscular body, chiseled features and magnificent hair were those of a mythical hero. All around me disappeared into the mist. He was all I could see.

I awoke, as if from a dream, though I hadn't been sleeping. The lieutenant was beside me. We were taking a stroll after breaking our fast at the inn. The food, whatever it was, did not agree with me. Turning my head, I belched discreetly, hoping no one would notice.

In a field of dandelions, Emily scampered about, eagerly filling up her bag. Clive was helping her, as he often did at home. "Dandelions have wonderful medicinal properties," she was saying, "Dandelion tea, for example, is good for your liver and skin and..." While she was chattering, the lieutenant was giving her a strange look.

"Emily is an herbalist," I said, by way of explanation.

"What is an herbalist?" asked the lieutenant.

"An herbalist is someone who knows all there is to know about herbs."

"Are we talking about this little child?"

"I was an herbalist," said Emily, "before everything was destroyed.".

"Don't worry, sweetheart," I said. "We'll just start over again."

She stamped her tiny feet. "I don't want to start over!" Her fists were clenched. A pout puckered her little round chubby face.

It was just too cute. Placing a hand over my mouth, I tried to suppress a giggle. "Emily, don't let Dr. Silas take away your usual sunny disposition."

"Why not? He's taken everything else."

"He hasn't taken your life."

"Yet."

"Who is Dr. Silas?" asked the lieutenant.

"The man behind the mob," I said.

"Oh? How so?"

"It's like this, Lieutenant, Emily creates herbal remedies and I sell them in the villages."

"I'm not following."

"Simply stated, the doctor put us out of business."

"That can't possibly be the reason, can it?"

"We think it is."

"He was friendly to our faces," said Emily, "and used others to do his dirty work."

"A hog was killed and threatening messages were written on the side of the barn in blood."

"We received the most unkind letters."

"Livestock was mutilated"

"Crops burned."

"And you're sure it was this doctor you speak of?" asked the Lieutenant.

"Who else could it be?" I asked. "Who else would benefit?"

"I hate to break it to you, after such an intriguing story, but last night's events had little or nothing to do with a dispute between a village doctor and two enterprising farm-girls."

"Care to explain?"

"The marauders left a path of destruction a hundred miles long, looting and burning farms and villages all along the way."

"So they weren't after me?" asked Emily.

"No, child, they were not after you. The doctor would not need a band of marauders to put you out of business. There are simple and legal ways to rid oneself of competition.

While on our journey to Glastonbury (the lieutenant on horseback, Clive, Emily and I in the wagon) we continued this interesting and informative conversation. The lieutenant had some insight into legal affairs, his father being a lawyer in London. Afterwards, I came to this conclusion: One can do amazing things when one has money and connections.

* * *

Glastonbury seemed otherworldly to a couple of unsophisticated farm-girls. Emily and I stared about us in open-mouthed wonder. In much the same way, Lieutenant Sommersby was creating a stir among the townsfolk. Heads turned as he passed by on his handsome steed.

In the heart of the city, we located a stone gate and turned in, following the path. The landscaping was beautiful and well tended. A large two story house came into view, framed by oak trees. The wagon wheels crunched the gravel as we pulled up the drive and stopped near the entrance. Clive was sent to the door with a note. A plump middle-aged maid answered his knock. She was wearing a black dress with a while apron, collar and cap. Accepting the note, she closed the door. Clive returned to the wagon. Emily and I waited anxiously for a response.

The door opened. A petite and elegantly dressed lady stepped out onto the stoop. I gasped. It was me, twenty five years in the future, with the same heart-shaped face, blue eyes, light-brown hair and small delicate nose, mouth and chin. It had to be Aunt Celia. Who else could it be?

The lady marched over to the wagon and looked inside. "What are you waiting for," she said. "Come in." Turning on her heel, she marched back into the house.

The men remained outside, tending to the wagon and horses. Emily and I were ushered into a tastefully decorated sitting room. We made ourselves at home on a luxurious settee. The maid brought in tea and sandwiches.

Aunt Celia entered the room and sat on the edge of a chair which matched the settee. We stared at each other, not knowing what to say. Finally, she spoke. "Are you Clara? Or are you Emily?"

"I'm Clara," I said.

"And who is this child?"

"This is Emily."

"Abigail's Emily?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Not possible. If my calculations are correct, Emily is twenty years old."

"Yes, ma'am. Emily is twenty years old."

"Are you saying this child is twenty years old?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you saying this child is Emily?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She rose to her feet, walked to the window, pulled back a curtain and stared outside. "I told her not to marry a Frenchman," she muttered. "Would she listen? Of course not. She was always so headstrong."

And she kept on muttering… and muttering. While she was still muttering, Emily and I finished the tea and sandwiches. Seeing she still hadn't finished muttering, we did some knitting. When she finally muttered everything that needed to be muttered, she rang a bell.

The maid appeared in the doorway. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Anna," said Aunt Celia, "make up a room for our guests."

And that was our welcome to Glastonbury.


	2. Chapter 2

The Child Lives On

Chapter Two

Abby married a Frenchman, heedless of my warnings. "It will only lead to trouble," I told her. Would she listen? Of course not! "I love him," she said. Bah! Love! Stuff and nonsense! A proper English lady would never marry a man from France. Consorting with the enemy is what it is. "Which side are you on?" I asked. "You do know we're at war, don't you?" She said, "Love has no boundaries," or some other such rubbish. I threw up my hands in disgust. "I give up," I said. "Go ahead. Throw your life away. I'll have no part of it." And that was the last time I ever saw her.

Growing up, Abby and I were inseparable. We dressed the same, talked the same, walked the same and did everything the same. Richard, our older brother, the mischievous little imp that he was, tried to drive a wedge between us whenever possible - taking Abby's side in every dispute - which we had, of course, being children. These disputes, however, were small and insignificant.

It wasn't until we became young maidens that cracks began to form in our relationship. In other words, when young gentlemen took notice of Abby and not me. It wasn't our appearance (we looked very much alike), but Abby was outgoing and flirtations, and I was, and still am, somewhat standoffish and sometimes sullen. However, I still maintain it wasn't jealousy, though she accused me of such, but concern for her wellbeing. When she fell head over heels for André Charbonneau, the cracks became a crevice, and the crevice became a canyon.

Shortly after the marriage, Abby's so-called husband ran off to Quebec - to seek his fortune, I suppose. While he was away, she died giving birth to a daughter. What then? Was I to be saddled with the child? Not on your life. Richard took Abby's side in the dispute. Her offspring was his responsibility.

As time went by, I married an English gentleman, and settled down in Glastonbury. Richard married Adeline and bought a farm in another part of the county - but it might as well have been across the ocean for all I cared. And yet, Adeline would send me a card and letter at the end of every year, telling of her daughter Clara and Abby's daughter Emily. However, she didn't tell me everything. One important detail was constantly left out. What was that little detail? It was this: Emily had failed to grow up.

* * *

Not long ago, Clara and Emily showed up on my doorstep unannounced. Their arrival did not sit well with me. In my opinion, it took a lot of nerve, after more than twenty years, to impose upon me in such a way. I demanded an explanation.

"A band of marauders burned down the farm," said Clara.

"Why?" I asked.

"We don't know."

"At first," said Emily, "we thought they were after me."

Occupying the same room, I fought to keep my temper. It was as if she had been left here to taunt me, with her father's bright green eyes and curly auburn hair.

"After you?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because of the rumors."

"What rumors?"

Blushing, she looked down at the floor, then said, in a whisper, "Well… um… you see... some folks say I'm a witch."

"Are you a witch?"

"No, ma'am."

"It wouldn't surprise me if you were," I muttered under my breath.

"But she's not a witch," Clara insisted.

"Then why? Is it just malice?"

"It's because of the herbs."

"Herbs? What do herbs have to do with it?"

"You see, Emily mixes the herbs into tonics, tinctures and remedies. A few, not all, equate that with magic."

"Ridiculous. You might as well say canning and pickling are magic."

"They are, in a way, aren't they?"

"Don't be silly. Those are perfectly natural processes."

"But, to be honest, it wasn't just the herbs."

"Oh?"

"You see, Emily, due to her unusual appearance, as you have already noted, is thought by some to be a magical being."

"A magical being? You mean, like a leprechaun?"

"Or fairy."

"Nonsense! There's a perfectly logical explanation for her deformity."

Inwardly, I cringed, instantly regretting the use of that term. "So what does this have to do with a band of marauders?" I asked, changing the subject.

"We thought it was just a little mob come to burn me at the stake," said Emily, as if that were a common everyday thing.

"But we were wrong," said Clara. "It was a big, big mob which burned down a bunch of farms and villages all over the county."

"Does anyone know why?" I asked.

"No, we don't know why," said a male voice behind me.

I turned to see who had spoken. A handsome young man in a cavalry uniform had just entered the room. "Who are you?" I asked.

Clara hurried over to the man, took him by the arm and brought him to me. "Aunt Celia," she said, "this is Lieutenant Sommersby. He escorted us here, after bravely fighting and capturing the marauders."

"Single handedly?"

"No, no," said the lieutenant. "Several units were involved."

"It's an honor to meet you," I said, offering a hand.

He took my hand and bowed. "The honor is mine, Lady Embry."

"Will you stay for dinner?"

"It would be a pleasure."

An hour or so in the company of this charming lieutenant took the sting out of an otherwise distressing day. When he took his leave, the girls retired to their bedroom, exhausted from a long arduous journey. I was left alone to stew, feeling myself ill-used.

* * *

My brother and his wife came the next day. I had been expecting them, of course. Upon their arrival, I retired to the sitting room, allowing for a happy reunion. While the sounds of joy and laughter wafted in through the windows, I waited patiently.

Richard entered the sitting room alone, hat in hand. His hair was streaked with gray, and his skin, leathery. In my opinion, he had aged more than he should have in twenty years. Due to the recent calamity which had befallen him and his family, his head and arms were bandaged, and he was walking with a limp. I offered him a seat and some refreshments. He partook of both.

"Celia," he said, "thank you."

"You were taking a chance," I said.

"You're stubborn, but not heartless."

"One is not stubborn when one is right."

That little chuckle and impish grin always did irk me. With great effort, I kept my temper.

"I must tell you," I continued, "I haven't changed my mind concerning Abby and her ill-fated marriage. Perhaps we should avoid the subject."

"We've been avoiding the subject for twenty years," he said. "Isn't it about time we cleared the air?"

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No."

"Then why talk about it?"

"Okay, have it your way."

An awkward silence followed, as a light breeze wafted through the room and ruffled the curtains. Some indistinct female voices could be heard in the distance. Richard cleared his throat.

"Celia," he said, "I have a request."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "What is your request?"

"Well…" He fidgeted a little, running a finger inside his collar to loosen it. "I thought, perhaps, since the girls were already here, you might look after them until the farm is rebuilt."

"You're asking a lot, Richard."

"I know."

I rose from my seat and walked to the window, torn between sacrificing a little comfort and coming across as a complete ogre.

"Okay," I said, "I'll do it, as long as that little half-breed stays clear of me."

"I'll have a word with her."

"See that you do."

* * *

Clara is young and pretty, with a friendly and engaging personality. For a self-proclaimed unsophisticated farm-girl, she took to Glastonbury society like a bee takes to honey. It wasn't long before callers (mostly young gentlemen) were flocking to our door. This situation became problematic. Night and day, no matter where I ventured in the house, I would stumble upon young people scattered about. At the risk of being disliked, I set visiting hours to daylight only. Propriety must be maintained.

In the end, however, it wasn't necessary for me to step in. The situation remedied itself when the list of suitors was cut down to one - Lieutenant Sommersby being the lucky winner. Of course, I had known from the very first day, but it took some time for the news to get around.

Now, about Abby's daughter Emily. As I mentioned before, having opposed the marriage, I shunned the child for many years. So, having her thrust upon me was unsettling, especially in light of her childish appearance. At first, I thought it had something to do with mixing French and English blood. However, it didn't take long to see the flaws in that theory. As much as it pains me to admit, the French and English have been mixing since the time of William the Conqueror, if not before. Setting that theory aside, I set my sights on her general health. Perhaps she wasn't eating correctly, or getting enough sleep. That theory went out the window as well. She's a perfectly healthy child, and I've never known anyone to sleep so soundly.

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, so I watched closely to see if she was a lazy, shiftless, lying, smooth-talking rogue like the man who stole my sister's heart and left her to die. At meals, I would goad her with cutting remarks, but couldn't get a rise out of her. Her responses were always polite and deferential. Ever industrious, she enjoyed sewing, knitting and other forms of needlework. While she was hard at work, I hid behind doors and watched to see if it was all a show. Instead of the indolence I had been expecting, she worked diligently whether I was there or not. Though she loved needlework, her real passion was gardening. Often, I would stand at the back window and observe. Hour after hour she would work, rain or shine, in her peasant clothing and wide-brimmed hat, never quitting until the dinner bell was rung. Try as I might, and try I did, I couldn't find anything to hold against her.

* * *

My garden has become a horticulturists dream since Emily arrived. I will not concede to anything magical, but as in any pursuit, some have the knack, and some don't. What once was a barren wasteland, due to my pathetic attempts, is filled to overflowing with beautiful flowers, vegetables and herbs of every variety.

With curiosity piqued, and a desire to get to the bottom of it, I sought her out. She was in the garden shed, perched on top of a step-stool mixing some herbs in a bowl. "How do you know how to do all of this?" I asked.

"An old lady taught me," was her answer.

"An old lady?"

"Living alone in the woods."

"How mysterious."

"They did say she was eccentric."

"How do retain all of this knowledge? I've never seen you write anything down or read any notes."

"You might say it's magical."

"I might, but I won't. The Dentons have always possessed above-average intelligence."

"Even my mother?"

"Love can transform even the brightest intellect into that of a blithering fool. Your mother had a good head on her shoulders... then she fell in love."

Emily blurted out, "I don't believe my father deserted my mother! He meant to return!"

The intensity with which she spoke took me by surprise. The flash in her eye, the set of her jaw and the little clenched fists showed true loyalty, though she had never known her father and mother.

"Perhaps you're right, my dear," I said.

Her countenance softened. "I am?"

"I was wrong about you, wasn't I?"

She threw her arms around my neck, causing the stool to tip over and fall to the floor with a clatter. Catching her in my arms, I held onto her tightly. "Thank you," she whispered, "for everything." Tears welled up in my eyes. I'm not an affectionate woman (my late husband would attest), but something about this child has touched my heart.

* * *

Now that I have gained my nieces, and the joy I was missing for so many years, I'm going to lose them again. Clara and Lieutenant Sommersby are to be wed. The ceremony will take place in three months. With so much to do - dresses, decorations, invitations, meals, et cetera - we'll be lucky to have everything ready in time.

After the wedding, Clara and her husband will be moving to London, taking Emily with them. This separation is unacceptable to me. I will have to purchase a home in London as well.


	3. Chapter 3

The Child Lives On

Chapter Three

Lovely in a white cotton dress, Clara drifted through the sitting room, brushed aside the curtains and gazed through the window. "How nice," she said. "The sun is out."

Skipping over beside her, I stood on tiptoes to see over the sill. After weeks of rain, our little London neighborhood was sparkling. The leaves on the trees were wet and dripping. Puddles lay on the ground, reflecting the sun. Neighborhood children, free from the confinement of their respective homes, were out in force on the cobblestone street. Laughter and screams of delight filled the air.

"Why don't you go outside and play?" asked Clara.

"I have things to do," was my answer.

"You have to leave the house sometime."

"I do leave the house, often."

"I'm not talking about the backyard and garden." Raising a fine, delicate hand, she pointed out the window. "See those children? They're just waiting for you to come out to play."

"I have tonics to mix. Mr. Hammer is expecting..."

"Emily, my darling, relax. He still has plenty in stock. Go outside and have some fun. You're only a child once."

Shaking my head, I sighed. She so loves to tease me.

Ruthie began to cry. Clara hurried to her bedroom to tend to her baby. I stared out the window, watching the children play. After living in London for a year, the farthest I had ventured on my own was the front stoop. Yes, I admit it, I'm a scaredy-cat. "Clara is right," I said to myself. "It's too nice to stay indoors." A half an hour later, I stepped out through the front door, breathing in the fresh summer air.

Now I was in a quandary. How does one introduce oneself to strangers? Where I came from, introductions were made for you. Maybe if I stood on the side of the street, someone would approach me. The children were playing rounders with a stick and a leather ball. It wasn't a proper game of rounders, with only three players on each side. Most of the time was spent chasing the ball or dodging horses, carts and carriages.

The ball rolled up close to me. I picked it up and tossed it to the bowler. A boy held the stick out. "Wanna try?" he asked.

I stepped gingerly onto the street, mindful of my skirt, and took the stick from his hand. The bowler lobbed one nice and easy. I whacked it and ran to first base, which was an old shirt or something lying in the street. The boy seemed pleased. "Not bad for a girl," he said. His name was Nigel. He lived across the street.

The next day, with the weather still pleasant, I took a seat on the front stoop and pulled out my knitting. I love knitting. Knitting is both relaxing and invigorating, and keeps my mind focused. Nigel appeared in front of me. From where, I don't know. "What you doin'?" he asked.

I answered his question with a question. "Can you not tell?"

"I seen me mum do that."

"It's called knitting."

"Why do it?"

"I like to make nice things."

"Why?"

"Just because."

His eyes were bright blue, his hair was blond and wavy, and his face was pretty, which I think embarrassed him. He smeared it with mud to cover it up.

"Wanna come over?" he asked.

This was something new. In Glastonbury, you didn't just come over. "To do what?"

"Play games."

"Would it be proper for a grown woman to play games with a little boy?"

He bristled. "Who you calling a little boy? I'm bigger 'n you."

"I'm not talking about size. I'm talking about age."

"By the looks of it, I'm older 'n you too."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Huh?"

"If you must know, I'm twenty two years old, much too old to play with you."

"Listen, girly, if you don't wanna play, just say so. Don't make stuff up."

He stormed off in a huff.

Behind me, Clara was snickering. "You'll never make any friends that way," she said.

"He's a hothead," was my response.

"Why did you tell him your age?"

"I wanted to hear what he would say."

"And…?"

"He said just what I thought he would say."

"Come inside and get your things, old woman. We're going to the market."

The next day, around the same time, I was sitting on the front stoop reading a story about a little girl named Rosamond. While I was absorbed in the story, some shadows appeared on the walkway in front of me. I looked up from my book. Nigel was standing before me. A tall, thin man stood next to him. I could tell they were related.

"This is the girl I was telling you about," said Nigel, gesturing with his hand.

"Pretty little thing," said the man.

"She makes up stories."

"So you said." The man leaned over and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to be an author, little lady?"

"I think he means I'm a liar," I said.

"Same thing."

"I've never heard it put that way."

He reared back and laughed - a laugh big and hearty, which echoed off the nearby houses.

"Are you an author?" I asked.

"Why yes," he said.

"Anything I might have read?"

"Probably not. I write political pamphlets."

"Do you have one with you?"

"As a matter of fact." He pulled a pamphlet out of his coat pocket and gave it to me. I marked my place in the book with it.

"Are your parents at home?" asked the man.

"I don't have any parents," I said.

"An orphan?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

The door opened behind me. Clara stepped out, holding Ruthie in her arms. "Oh!" she said. "I didn't…"

I rose to my feet, slipping the book into my cloth-bag. "Clara," I said, "this is Nigel and…"

"Kenneth Kittridge," said the man, doffing his cap and bowing.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Clara.

"The pleasure is mine, I'm sure."

"Are you going somewhere?" I asked.

"Aunt Celia asked us to lunch," said Clara. "Go in and fetch your things."

That evening, the Kittridges came over to our house for a visit. After the initial greeting, I escaped to a back room, searching for solitude. Much to my chagrin, Nigel and his sisters were ushered in. Picking up the two year old, I held her in my lap and played 'peek-a-boo'. The three year old sat on the floor, talking with her doll. Nigel stood in front of me, hands on hips. "Well, well, well," he said, "If it ain't the little girl what thinks she's grown up."

"For your information," I said. "I am grown up."

"Don't look like it to me."

"No point in arguing, I suppose. Now that you're here, what do you want to do?"

"Nothin', with you."

Plopping down on the floor, he fiddled with some trinkets he kept in his pockets. After a while he departed, leaving me alone with his sisters. An hour of so later, Clara entered the room with Beverly Kittridge (Nigel's mother). "Where's Nigel?" they asked.

"I don't know," I said with a shrug.

"I need to have a talk with that boy," said Beverly. "He was supposed to be watching his sisters." She knelt down in front of me. "How long ago did he leave, sweetie?"

"I don't know," I said. "An hour?"

"Should we send the men out to look for him?" asked Clara.

"That won't be necessary," said Beverly. "He'll find his way home. And when he does… Well, never mind."

From that day on, whenever Nigel saw me, he would turn up his nose. He told his friends, "Don't bother with 'Little Miss Snobby'. She's too grown up for us." Too busy for such childishness, I simply shrugged it off.

Then one day, while I was knitting on the front stoop, I noticed a fancy carriage speeding recklessly down the narrow cobblestone street toward Nigel and his friends. Jumping to my feet, I shouted, "Watch out!" but couldn't make myself heard. The carriage plowed into Nigel, sending him sprawling, and kept on going. Dropping my knitting, I ran to him, and knelt down, folding my skirt under my knees. His friends gathered around, chattering. "Nigel," I said, patting his face, "can you hear me?"

"It'll take more than an old nag to do me in," he muttered.

"I think your leg is broken."

"Is that why it hurts?"

Beverly and some men came running. The men carried Nigel to his home. Nigel's friends ran to get a doctor. I went home and told Clara all about it.

The next day, in the early afternoon, I walked across the street and knocked on the Kittridge's front door. The knock was answered by Beverly. "Have you come to see Nigel, sweetie?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

She called out, "Nigel, you have a visitor."

"Who?" he yelled.

"Little Emily."

"I don't want to see her."

"Nigel, be nice."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Oh, alright."

She said to me, "He's in the sitting room, sweetie," and ushered me inside, leaving me alone in the foyer.

When I entered the sitting room, which looked a lot like every other sitting room I had ever seen, Nigel was lounging on a couch with his broken leg stretched out. I climbed into the chair next to him, adjusting my skirt. "Hello, Nigel," I said. "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think I'm feeling?" he muttered.

"I brought a book, thought you might like to hear a story."

"Not some kind of girly book, is it?"

"It's an adventure book."

"I suppose that would be alright."

I read a chapter of Robinson Crusoe. He seemed mildly interested. When I returned the next day, he was anxious for more. "Read more than one chapter," he said. "I want to know what happens."

"A chapter a day is plenty," I said. "It helps to build the excitement."

"Always has to be your way, doesn't it?"

"I'll leave if you like."

"No, no, please stay."

After Robinson Crusoe, we moved on to Gulliver's Travels. By this time, he was by my side reading along with me, making comments and asking questions. We formed a friendship where there once was discord. It just goes to show, books can bring people together.


	4. Chapter 4

The Child Lives On

Chapter Four

Interesting, isn't it? how an unpleasant circumstance can sometimes change one's life for the better. For example, I would never have met the man of my dreams if the following unpleasant encounter had never occured on that sunny autumn afternoon.

It happened like this: Mama, Emily and I were strolling through Hyde Park, as we often did when the weather was nice, when a pudgy, flouncy, silly kind of girl, in a plethora of ribbons and curls and silk and lace, screeched, "How adorable!" and sprinted in our direction, falling to her knees in front of Emily, and grabbing her little hands. "You're so cute!" she giggled. "So adorable! What's your name, sweetheart?!"

"Emily," I said. "Her name is Emily."

The girl looked up at me. Her glare was intense. She hissed, "Does she not have a voice?"

I took a step back. "Yes, she..."

"Was I talking to you?"

"Well, I..."

"Where are you manners?"

Needless to say, I was stung by the rebuke, and took an instant dislike to the girl.

Having dismissed me, like a petulant monarch, she returned her attention to Emily. "Your name is Emily, sweetheart?" she asked, in that cutesy voice people use when speaking with a small child.

"Yes, miss," said Emily, who has a naturally cute voice.

"Such a pretty name."

"You think so?"

"My name is Julia."

"Is it?"

"Will you come play with me? I have a room full of lovely dollies."

"I'm sorry, miss. I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Busy? With what?"

"My garden."

"And where is your garden?"

"At home."

"But you're here in the park."

"I assure you, miss, I'm only taking a short break."

"Won't you spare just a few minutes? Please? Oh, pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

Emily, the sweet girl that she is, acquiesced.

So Julia, who loves all things tiny and cute, took Emily to her home in a fancy carriage. Mama was concerned, though she didn't explain why, and insisted that I accompany her. Still resentful, I fussed and fumed (inwardly) until the carriage came to a stop in front of a palatial mansion. Well, let me tell you, that changed everything. Lounging in a luxurious sitting room, sipping tea and eating delicious cakes, made tolerating Julia a whole lot easier. Besides, Lady Harrington (Julia's mother) was quite charming.

Though I was reduced to a sort of governess, or watchdog, this budding friendship between Emily and Julia actually worked to my advantage. I was invited to parties and balls to which I would not have been otherwise invited, I met people I would not have otherwise met, and went places I would not have otherwise gone.

* * *

I remember that special night, the night of the party, like it was yesterday. Emily and I had just finished dressing when Julia burst into my bedroom, swooping up Emily into her arms and twirling her around while giggling and shrieking, "My little sweetheart! You're so adorable! Yes, you are! Yes, yes, you are! Oh, how I've missed you so!"

The strange thing was, at least to me, Emily was smiling and giggling as well. She actually liked the girl, though I could never figure out why.

After this immoderate greeting, Julia set Emily down on the floor, and they did a little dance, pirouetting here and there, while Julia hummed a waltz. Mama joined in the singing, taking my hand and spinning me around. I went along with it, reluctantly.

When this impromptu little dance was over, Julia took hold of Emily's little hand. "Come, my little sweetheart," she said, "the carriage awaits." Without a word to me, they hurried out the door. I followed along like a servant, expected to be there.

The entrance to the Harrington mansion was framed by pillars, like a Greek temple. Servants, in fancy dress, greeted each arrival - opening carriage doors, and helping out the ladies. Julia and Emily were greeted with extravagant fanfare, as if princesses were arriving. Guests and servants gathered around - men bowed, and women curtsied, and a great to-do was made. I slipped out the other side of the carriage, avoiding the throng.

The mansion was lit up with a multitude of candles and lamps. Dazzling decorations covered the walls and hung from the ceilings. Everybody who was anybody in London was there - in their finest clothing and jewels. Orchestral music filled the air, adding to the already festive atmosphere.

Once inside, Julia led Emily away, leaving me free to wander on my own. While ambling aimlessly, and chatting with folks here and there, I saw him - dark hair, dark eyes, and so handsome in his tailored suit. Our eyes met. He took a step towards me. Another young man asked me to dance. I thought it impolite to refuse. At the end of each dance, another young man took his place, then another and another, until I was staring into the eyes of the man of my dreams. "Finally," he said. "In my arms at last."

"Have you been waiting all this time?"

"Yes."

"But surely there are other girls."

"None that I can see."

"I don't even know your name."

"Victor. And yours?"

"Ruth."

"I hope you don't mind, but I have no intention of letting you go."

"Is that so?"

As if by magic, everyone and everything in the room faded away. Victor and I had the ballroom all to ourselves, dance after dance. The clock struck twelve. "Is this where you run away and lose a slipper?" he asked.

"Are you a prince?"

"No."

"Whatever will we do? I have no evil step-mother or ugly step-sisters - although Julia..."

"We'll have to create a fairy tale of our own. May I see you again?"

"I believe that would be suitable."

"Merely suitable?"

"We shall see."

"Indeed, we shall see."

* * *

A man did call on me, but it wasn't Victor. Thinking it might be Victor, I ran to the foyer when I heard the knock. Stopping short, and hiding my disappointment, I put on a smile. He was tall and lanky, a little stooped, as if embarrassed by his height, with a long thin face, thinning hair, a beak nose and a weak chin.

"Good afternoon," he said in a slow sad way. "We met at the Harrington party."

"Did we?"

"Surely you remember me."

"I met so many people. Would you like to come in?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

Mama and Emily were in the sitting room, knitting. "Mama," I said, "this is…"

"Ben," said the man, surveying the room with his sad droopy eyes. "Ben Johnson."

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Johnson?" asked Mama.

"If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

Emily, putting her knitting aside, hopped out of her little rocking chair. "I'll make it," she said, skipping out of the room.

"Don't worry," said Mama, as Ben took a seat. "Emily makes excellent tea."

"I wasn't worried," he said.

As we were chatting casually about the weather, I stifled a yawn, and tried to look interested. The housekeeper entered the room with a calling-card. Much to my surprise, she gave it to me. The name on the card was Victor Willoughby. Seeing the name, I jumped to my feet and ran out of the room. He was in the foyer. My heart was in my throat.

"I hope you don't mind my stopping by," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

"N-not at all," I somehow managed to say. "Come in and meet Mama."

We entered the sitting room. He stopped when he saw Ben. "If you have company," he said, "I can come back."

"Don't go," I said, grabbing his hand. "Emily is making tea."

At that moment, Emily entered the room with the tea tray. "Oh!" she said. "Another guest. I'll fetch another cup." Setting the tray on a little table, she hurried from the room. Victor and I sat together on the couch. A moment later, Emily poured the tea and passed around the cookies. When that task had been accomplished, she returned to her little rocking chair and took up her knitting.

"My employer, the Harrington Company, will be expanding the business into the Americas," Victor was saying.

"Isn't there a war going on over there?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, there is, but it won't last much longer."

"I hope you're right. Every time there's a war, I worry about Daddy."

"Your father is a soldier?"

"A Major in the cavalry."

"Impressive."

"I could have been in the cavalry," said Ben.

"What stopped you?" asked Victor.

"Lumbago."

"That's too bad."

"What is it you do?" asked Mama.

"I'm a lawyer," said Ben.

"An honorable profession."

"I like to think so. Not everyone would agree."

"I suppose not."

Throughout this conversation, Ben had been watching Emily with increasing interest. "I say, little one," he said. "What's that you're knitting? A sock?"

"It's a snake," said Emily.

"Oh dear! A snake?"

She held up a long knitted tube. "We stuff it with rags and place it next to the door to keep out the drafts."

"How clever."

"It wasn't my idea."

"Emily is quite clever," I said. "If you're interested in tonics and herbal remedies, Emily is the girl to see."

"Is this child a doctor?" asked Victor, raising his eyebrows.

"An herbalist," said Emily.

"Would you care to see her garden?" I asked.

"She has a garden?" asked Victor.

"You won't believe it."

Upon viewing the garden, Victor and Ben were suitably astonished. "When you said garden," said Victor, "I didn't expect anything quite so… so expansive. It's like a cultivated jungle."

"No tigers I hope," said Ben.

"We do have a cat," said Emily, "for the rodents."

"Necessary, I'm sure."

"I never expected to find a garden like this in the middle of London," said Victor.

"Well," I said, "we do have our own little garden fairy."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

Emily giggled, "I'm glad you didn't say gnome."

"Gnome, ha, ha, ha… We'd have to get you one of those little pointy hats."

"And a little beard, ha, ha, ha…"

The men were staring at us. Suddenly, I felt a little flushed.

Emily's neat and tidy workshop brought out even more admiration. She climbed up onto her step-stool and picked up a small jar from off of a shelf, handing it to Ben. "Try this," she said. "It might help your lumbago."

Looking at it dubiously, he took a sip, and made a wry face. "Bitter," he said.

"Drink it down quickly."

He did as he was told, shuddering slightly.

She turned and spoke to Victor. "Any maladies?"

"None to speak of," he said, with a chuckle.

"Something for general health then?"

"Whoa!" said Ben. "I'm feeling a burst of energy. What's in this stuff?"

"Just herbs," said Emily.

"I think I will try it," said Victor. "But let me pay you. You've gone to a lot of trouble."

My estimation of him went up when I didn't think it possibly could.

"You can have this," said Emily, placing a small jar into his hand. "If you want more, visit Hammer's Apothecary."

"Does he carry this lumbago medicine?" asked Ben.

"He carries all of our products."

"Quite the little business woman," said Victor.

"No, no, not me. Clara has the head for business."

"You're a team?"

"Certainly. We have been for many years."

"Can't have been too many, I shouldn't think."

"Would you care to stay for lunch?" asked Mama.

"If it's not too much trouble," said Ben.

"No trouble at all."

* * *

From that time on, Victor came to see me almost every day; and soon, we were courting. So you see, sometimes an unpleasant situation can lead to something wonderful.


	5. Chapter 5

The Child Lives On

Chapter Five

Gordon's storied military career has been closely tied to Sir Arthur Wellesley, battling the French in both Portugal and Spain, and culminating at Waterloo, which is in Belgium.

Shortly after the news of that glorious victory hit home, a letter came by courier, instructing me to close up the house in London and meet him in France - where he had been awarded a post near the port of Calais. Emily found me huddled in a corner of the sitting room, staring at the floor, mumbling to myself.

"Clara," she said, "whatever is the matter?"

Too upset to answer, I simply handed over the letter. Her reaction was slightly different than mine.

"France?" she said, jumping up and down excitedly. "I've always wanted to go to France!"

"I don't want to go to France," I moaned. "I like London. All my friends are here. Why did he have to accept that position? Why can't he just come home?"

"Clara," she said matter-of-factly. "If you don't want to go, don't go."

"I can't do that. My place is with my husband."

"In that case, let's start packing."

"Give me a minute, will you? Can't you see I'm brooding?"

"Let me know when you're done."

Without a care in the world, she skipped out of the room, humming, 'Frère Jacques'.

Later that afternoon, Ruthie returned from an outing. Taking several deep breaths, intending to just get it over with, I met her at the door, and gave her the news. By the way she reacted, you would have thought the world had come to an end.

"It's unfair," she whined. "I won't go."

"But your father is expecting you."

"My father? When has he ever been a real father?"

"Now wait a minute."

"You know as well as I do, he's always away, fighting in a war; and when he's home, for a day or so, here and there, he spends his time with his mates. Now I'm supposed to jump when he says jump? I won't do it."

"Come on, darling, be reasonable."

"You know very well I can't leave Victor. We're to be married soon."

"Victor can visit you in France."

"Visit me? Just like that?"

"When your father was courting me, he traveled all the way from London to Glastonbury."

"London to Glastonbury is not the same. We're talking about France, for goodness sake!"

"This might be a good test for him."

"A test?"

"To see if his love is true."

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say. I knew it as soon as I said it.

"I don't need to test his love!" she screamed, stomping angrily out the door, and slamming it behind her.

Placing a hand on my forehead, I let out a long, heavy sigh. _Has she always been so melodramatic?_ With a pressing need for someone to talk to, I proceeded through the garden to Emily's workshop. When I arrived, Emily was mixing tonics in a vat on a low table. At one time, the table was of normal height, and Emily would stand on a step-stool while working. Then one day, Ben Johnson (a friend of the family), while watching her at work, asked, "Why don't you cut the table legs in half so you don't have to climb up and down that step-stool?" It was such a good idea, we wondered why we hadn't thought of it before.

As I took a seat on the aforementioned stool, I leaned over, elbows on knees, holding my head in my hands, and let out another long sigh… and then another… and another.

"Tu as l'air fatigué?" said Emily. "Vous n'avez pas dormi?"

"Eh?" I said, sitting up straight and staring at her, dumbfounded.

"Êtes-vous troublé?"

"When did you learn to speak French?"

"I've been studying here and there."

"Why?"

"In case my father comes home."

"Honey, your father won't be coming home."

"How do you know?"

"He would have been home by now. And what if he did come home? How would you know it was him? You have no pictures, no momentos..."

"Well, I…"

"And don't forget, he would be expecting to find a woman of forty."

She stared off into the distance, like in a trance. Then with a shake of her head, and a flutter of her eyelashes, she looked at me. "No matter," she said. "My study will not be in vain. I will speak with my kinsmen in their native language." She stood at attention, placing a hand over her heart. "Mon coeur gonfle de fierté! Vive la France!"

"Hush," I said. "We're still in England, you know."

Now that I think about it, she must have been learning to speak French with Julia. Pretending to be elegant ladies from Versailles would be just the sort of game they would play. Julia, by the way, is a girl from a wealthy family, a few years younger than Ruthie, who loves Emily to distraction - like a stuffed animal or a favorite doll. Perhaps I am being unfair. Emily, who is quite sensible, and not the least bit covetous, is very fond of the girl.

"Have you told Ruthie?" asked Emily.

"Didn't you hear the screaming and slamming doors?"

"No, no, I didn't hear it."

"She refuses to go."

"I don't blame her. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you ask Celia to look after her?"

"I can't. Gordon would be furious."

"Eh, he'll get over it." With a shrug, she turned back to her work.

Rising to my feet, I trudged back to the house, still brooding. "He used to be so gallant," I muttered to myself, "mindful of my every need - my happiness his only desire. Funny how twenty years can change so many things."

The next day, I received another letter. It read:

_My Darling Clara,_

_I have arranged with an auction house to sell the furniture. Pack up the clothing and momentos you wish to bring. The cottage is furnished._

_Also, I have arranged for Ruth to stay with Lady Embry. She is to be married soon and it would be unfair to bring her here._

_Tell Emily to pack her seeds. A large plot has been tilled and will be ready when she arrives._

_Counting the days until you are by my side again. Have missed you so._

_Gordon_

Emily found me huddled in a corner of the sitting room, weeping.

"Mon chéri," she said, "quel est le problème?"

Too upset to answer, I handed over the tear-stained letter.

"Wow," she said. "So sweet. This must be what love is."

I buried my face in my arms.

"But why are you crying?" she asked.

"I'm a heel," I whimpered.

"Nonsense!"

"Nonsense?"

"Your reaction was perfectly reasonable."

"It was?"

"Why didn't he write this in the first letter? Why didn't Celia tell you about this arrangement? You had a right to be upset."

"I should have trusted him."

"Oh, well, yes, there is that. But we don't have time for moping. Get up. On your feet. We've got packing to do."

Turning on her heel, she marched out of the room, singing, 'La Marseillaise'. A minute later, I rose to my feet, adjusted my dress, and followed.

As we began to sort through our things, I reminded her that she was dependant on Gordon's good graces, and singing 'La Marseillaise' would certainly be frowned upon.

"Don't worry," she said. "I wouldn't dream of aggravating The Major."

"We are English, after all," I said. "Moving to France won't make us French."

"I'm half-French."

"Honey, you were born in England. You've lived in England for forty years. You couldn't be more English."

"My father was French. Should I deny that? Just because our leaders can't get along?"

"Are you proud of your father?"

"I think he's been treated unfairly, just because he's French."

"Sweetheart, he left your mother alone and pregnant."

"Is that really true?"

"Daddy wouldn't lie, would he?"

"Your father doesn't know any more than anyone else. He wasn't there when Mother and Father sat close together on a moon-lit night, making plans and dreaming dreams, wishing upon a shooting star, promising eternal love and devotion."

"You're a hopeless romantic."

"Hopeless is right. I'll never know love."

"You are loved, you know?"

"Of course, but it's not romantic love, like you and Gordon or Ruthie and Victor."

_Me and Gordon? I wonder… It's been such a long time. _

Before I could even tell her, Ruthie had already changed her mind. "A month or two in France would be wonderful," she said, "and I do want to see Daddy." Later, I discovered that Victor would be out of town on business for a month.

Ruthie, however, wasn't the only addition to our party. Much to my surprise, Aunt Celia, for some inexplicable reason, decided to come along as well. "Are you sure you're ready to enter the land of the barbarians?" I asked, teasing her a little.

"We English are nothing if not stout-hearted," she said, "and I want to see that you arrive safely."

How she was planning to assure our safety, I don't know, but we were happy to have her along.

And it didn't end there. Julia and her parents decided to join us as well. Lord and Lady Harrington are quite wealthy, so this worked to our advantage. Not only did we travel in a luxurious carriage, but first-class accomodations were procured in Dover and on the ship which ferried us across the channel. And to top it all off, a villa was rented in Calais, which we were free to use whenever we desired.

It was early morning when the Harrington's driver and footman came to fetch us in a carriage. The sun was just beginning to send out its light, chasing away the darkness. Our trunks had been packed and sent on ahead. The house had been emptied and cleaned. I shed a tear for my home of twenty years. It had been a good and loyal home.

The Harrington mansion was buzzing with activity when we arrived. Servants were running here and there, carrying out last minute instructions. Luggage had been set out on the curb. As soon as the carriage stopped, the driver and footman set about loading and tying it to the top. In the meantime, Julia insisted on dressing Emily in some clothes she had just bought for her - which delayed us for maybe a half an hour or so. Everyone took it in stride - except Ruthie, who was miffed; but then, Ruthie and Julia never did see eye to eye.

Inside the carriage, Lady Harrington, Aunt Celia and I occupied one seat, and Ruthie, Julia and Emily sat in the other, facing us. Emily had to sit in the middle to keep the tigers from tearing each other apart. No, that's not true. I'm exaggerating. The worst we could expect were a few snide remarks and some dirty looks. Lord Harrington climbed up on top next to the driver, and seemed genuinely happy to be there.

Getting underway, the carriage moved slowly through town, stopping frequently in traffic. When we were finally free of the city, the horses could run and we made good time. I napped most of the way, so I can't tell you much about the journey. Packing up and moving is so exhausting.

As we were approaching Dover, the marvelous, overwhelming beauty of the white cliffs and the channel came into view. With the sun at our backs, shadows stretched out over the shimmering water. We gazed about us in open-mouthed wonder, oohing and aahing. Most of us had never seen such a magnificent sight. Lord Harrington was whooping on top of the carriage.

That night, after a luxurious dinner, we slept at a quaint little inn, listening to the waves beat against the shore. The next morning, we boarded a ship bound for Calais. The Harringtons had been on a sea-voyage before. The rest of us hadn't. Enraptured by the magnificent view, the smell of sea air, and the feel of the buoyant ship under our feet, we remained on deck during the entire voyage. Lord Harrington lifted Emily onto a crate so she could take in the view unobstructed, holding onto her tightly. It was touching to see his tender care and gentle affection for her. The Harringtons, as a whole, loved her dearly. She could have moved in with them at any time, I'm sure. It was in her power to do so. If they had ever asked her to, she never told me.

Sharing this short, awe-inspiring, adventure, our party formed a lovely camaraderie. I even heard Ruthie and Julia speaking civilly to each other. Imagine that.

When the coast of France appeared, growing larger and larger before my eyes, I became more and more anxious and apprehensive. I hadn't seen my husband in two years, three months and four days. As the ship was docking, after a frantic search, I located him amongst the throng on the pier. Leaving the others behind, I ran to him, weaving through the crowd in my haste, until he suddenly appeared. Stopping short, I gasped. The patch over one eye, the scar across his cheek and the missing leg caught me completely by surprise. He stood before me, pensive. Worry distorted his still handsome face. "My darling," he said, "can you still love me? Even like this?"

To set him at ease, I played the coquette. "I've always fancied a rogue," I said with a wink.

"Have you now?" A mischievous grin spread across his face. The old twinkle returned to his eye. Enveloping me in his big, strong arms, he kissed me passionately, replacing my anxiety with sensual delight. That night, we… On second thought, I'll keep that to myself.

The open country, with its forests and meadows and lush greenery, has taken me back to my childhood on Daddy's farm. I'm happier and more content than I have been for a long, long time. Since he's no longer a field-officer, Gordon works behind a desk and is home with me every evening. Paradise on earth, is what I call it. I wish it could last forever.


	6. Chapter 6

The Child Lives On

Chapter Six

It is a normal day amongst weeks and months and years of days which run together in my mind. I awaken in the same manner, shave using the same strokes, dress in the same style, and consume the same breakfast. I arrive at my office, via the same route, conveyed by the same coach and driver. Barnaby, my clerk, delivers a cup of coffee, adds exactly the same amount of cream and sugar, stirring ten rotations clockwise with a spoon. A stack of papers lay on my desk, begging for attention. Picking one from the middle, as usual, I lean back in my chair and peruse.

The stack is slowly dwindling. A light clearing of the throat catches my ear. I look up. Barnaby is beside my desk.

"What is it?" I ask.

"A child wishes to see you, sir."

"A child?"

"She says to tell you…" He hesitates.

"Yes?"

"She still has the dolly you gave her, sir."

"Show her in… and bring some coffee, if you would."

"Right away, sir."

"Wait."

"Sir?"

"We don't give coffee to children, do we?"

"Not as a general rule, sir."

"Bring tea."

"Yes, sir."

What a delightful surprise. I'm not generally fond of children, as a rule, but this particular child is an exception.

Barnaby ushers the child into the office, closing the door behind her. She is wearing a lovely white and pink frock, with little pink gloves and tiny pink slippers. Auburn curls poke out, here and there, from under a white and pink bonnet trimmed with lace. A welcoming smile brings out the dimples on her chubby little cheeks.

I rise to my feet. "To what do I owe this pleasure, my dear."

She removes her gloves, dropping them into a large white and pink cloth-bag, pulls a jar from the same bag, and places it on my desk. "Good morning, Mr. Johnson," she says. "I brought something for you."

Resuming my seat, I stare at the jar, saying, "I thought this was gone for good. Mr. Hammer…"

"I smuggled it in for you."

"You have my eternal gratitude."

Unbeknownst to the world at large, this child produces the most heavenly elixir. Since she moved away, I have been searching high and low for a substitute. Nothing I've found, however, comes close.

Barnaby brings in the tea-service, gently placing the tray on a small table. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Not right now," I say. "Thank you."

He leaves as quietly as he came in.

The child pours the tea and places a cup on the desk in front of me. I take a sip, absentmindedly. She drifts around the office, like a tiny ballerina, examining every little thing.

"What brings you to England?" I ask.

"Ruthie's wedding," is her answer.

"Ah."

"Does it still hurt?"

_How does she know? I didn't let it show._ "No, no," I say. "I was resigned to it long ago, when I first saw them dancing together."

"And yet you came around often."

"At the time, occupying the same room was enough. Do you like France?"

"Very much so. You should see my garden. It's three times as big as the garden I had here."

"And you're still making elixirs?"

"Oh yes. Monsieur Marteau sells them in his shop."

"If you don't mind my asking, where is this shop?"

"I'll give you the address if you like."

"Thank you."

In my excitement, I scurry to the door and open it. Barnaby is at his desk in the antechamber, sipping coffee. When he notices me, he sets down his cup. "Is there something I can help you with, sir?"

"Paper," I say.

"Right away, sir."

"And… um… do we have a stool?"

"I believe I can locate one, sir."

"Very good. Thank you."

While I am returning to my seat, Barnaby appears with the paper and stool. He sets the stool on the floor by the desk and offers the child his hand. Taking his hand, she steps onto the stool and writes out the address on the paper. Her handwriting is exceptionally neat.

I give the paper to Barnaby. "File this, will you?"

"Right away, sir," he says, helping the child to dismount, and taking the paper and stool away.

"I was just about to leave for lunch," I say to the child. "Will you join me?"

"It would be an honor, sir."

I choose a little café, haunted by lawyers. It's just beginning to fill up. We find a table near the door. From my point of view, I can only see the top of the child's head. "Do you need something to sit on?" I ask. The waiter, anticipating, hurries over with a large book, placing it on a chair and lifting the child onto it. "I know how it is," he says. "I have three little girls myself."

We order steak and kidney pudding. In a matter of minutes, it is placed before us. I punch a hole in the crust with my fork, allowing the steam to burst forth.

"Does your mother know you're here?" I ask.

"Yes," says the child. "She's busy with the wedding."

"How did you get here?"

"Lady Harrington loaned me her carriage."

"The driver isn't waiting, is he?"

"He will come back for me."

"I see. What would you have done if I wasn't here?"

"I would have found a quiet place to wait."

"All alone?"

"Certainly. I have my knitting to keep me occupied."

The pudding seems cool enough. Taking a bite, I enjoy the savory splendor. The child does the same.

"I'm surprised Miss Harrington isn't with you," I say. "I remember…"

"She found a beau," says the child.

"Did she?"

"Head over heels, as they say."

"She never did anything halfway."

"He's a fine gentleman."

"Lord Harrington would never allow just anyone to court his daughter."

"Certainly not."

"Give them my best regards."

"I will."

Looking down, I notice the pudding is gone. _Did I eat it all?_ Calling the waiter over, I order coffee, tea, and strawberry tarts. I don't normally eat desserts; but then again, I don't normally entertain such a charming guest.

"Did you have a happy childhood?" asks the child.

Surprised by the question, I pause to consider. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Let me think." I tap my chin and furrow my brow, then cross my arms and look at the ceiling. "It wasn't happy or sad," I say. "My father planned my life from the cradle onwards."

"He planned everything?"

"Every little detail."

"I'm surprised he didn't arrange a marriage."

"He did. But he died before he could see it through. I was spared."

Her stare is profound. For some reason, I am ashamed. "Perhaps I should have said,_ she_ was spared."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Any wife of mine would be unfairly compared to your sister. I've tried to put her out of my mind, but once you've seen a heavenly vision, you can't unsee it." _What did I just say? And why?_

"I wish I could help you, but this is beyond me."

"I have no need of help, my dear. Bachelorhood has its advantages."

"We are in the same boat."

"How so?"

"I will never marry."

"How can you know?"

"I have determined it, just as you."

"You still have time to change your mind."

"As do you."

I can't help but chuckle. "You would make a fine lawyer, my dear, turning my arguments against me."

"Is it just playing games with words?"

"Not when there's a life in the balance."

Concern darkens her pretty face. "You, sir, have a very important job."

"Just a cog in a wheel, my dear."

"As always, I learn something when I'm with you."

"And I with you."

Watching her from the window, waving goodbye as she enters the carriage, I am gratified to have acquired such a friend. She had no reason to seek me out, but did so anyway. Remembering the elixir she left on my desk, I open the lid, lift the jar to my lips and take a sip. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, I attack my next task with vigor.


	7. Chapter 7

The Child Lives On

Chapter Seven

On a cool, late-spring morning, a little boy, and a little girl, with light blond hair and shimmering blue eyes, were wandering aimlessly down a dirt path. The path runs into, and out of, a little town located near the port of Calais in northern France. The little boy and little girl were twins; and if the little girl wasn't wearing a dress, and if her hair wasn't put up in pigtails and ribbons, you might not be able to tell them apart.

Now, these children were speaking to each other in the French language. Why? Because they were French, that's why. So, for those of you who don't understand the French language, I will do my best to translate.

"What do you want to do?" asked Renée.

"I don't know," answered René, while trying to hit a little squirrel with a stone, and missing badly.

Yes. You heard that right. These twins were named Renée and René. Don't ask me what their parents were thinking.

"Do you want to go see Emily?" asked Renée.

"Nah," said René. "She'll make me work in her garden."

"Make you? You can say no if you want to."

"No, I can't."

"Gilles and Benoit will probably be there. They're in love with her, you know."

"Nah ah."

"They were fighting over her the other day."

"You're making that up."

"Ask them."

"I will."

Having made a decision, in a sort of roundabout way, Renée and René walked, in a roundabout sort of way, toward Emily's little cottage. When they arrived, they heard crying coming from within.

"Maybe this is a bad time," said Renée, the more cautious of the two.

"Too late," said René, already knocking on the door.

The door was opened by a little girl with auburn curls and bright green eyes. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

"Emily," said Renée, "is something wrong?"

"Nothing to concern you," said Emily.

"Have you seen Gilles and Beniot?" asked René.

"No, I haven't seen the boys today."

"Renée said that they were in love with you…"

"Shut up!" said Renée.

"And that they were fighting over you. Is that true?"

"Other than the usual punching, prodding, poking and pushing," said Emily with a shrug, "I haven't noticed any fighting."

René turned on his sister. "See?"

"I wasn't lying," Renée insisted. "I know what I saw."

"Would you mind keeping you voices down?" asked Emily.

"I know what I saw," whispered Renée.

"It doesn't matter," said Emily. "Boys will fight over any little thing."

"Girls too," said René.

"Nah ah," said Renée.

"Perhaps it would be better if we continued this fascinating discussion tomorrow," said Emily.

"Huh?" said the twins.

"Come back tomorrow... please?"

Taking the hint, the twins went on their merry way, and Emily stepped back into the cottage. Four grown-up-type people were together in the living room. Two pretty ladies, almost identical, except for a twenty year age difference, which was almost imperceptible, were hugging each other and weeping. Two gentlemen, one in his fifties, and the other in his twenties, were standing side-by-side having a low conversation. The older man, due to his eye-patch and wooden leg, was often mistaken for a pirate, though he was really a soldier. The younger man, handsome and dashing, with dark hair and dark eyes, was the type women swoon over.

Leaving them be, Emily proceeded through the living room into the kitchen, where she had been preparing chicken and vegetables for lunch. Yes, as incredible as it may sound, this child knew how to kill, pluck, clean, dress and roast a chicken all by herself. What do you think of that?

While Emily was setting the food out on the table, the four grown-up-type people (Clara, Ruth, Victor and Gordon), having sufficiently regained their composure, sat together to enjoy the meal. When the food was set out, Emily climbed into her chair. "Tell me all about this move," she said, handing a basket of fresh-baked bread to Ruth, who was sitting to her right.

"Victor has been made a vice-president," said Ruth, taking some bread out of the basket and passing it to Victor.

"The Harrington Company set up a branch-office in Toronto," said Victor, passing the basket to Gordon, after helping himself to some bread. "I'll be working there."

"You mentioned before about expanding into the Americas," said Clara, accepting the basket from Gordon, "but I never considered the implications."

"Me either," said Emily, taking the basket from Clara and setting it on a side-table.

"To tell the truth," said Victor, "neither did I."

"Nor I," said Ruth.

"When will you be leaving?" asked Gordon.

"Our ship sails in a month," said Victor, "out of Portsmouth."

"We will come to see you off, of course."

"Of course," said Clara.

* * *

On a warm summer morning, four children were lounging lazily under a shady tree on the banks of a stream. Insects and birds sang all around them. The stream was singing too, in its own sort of way. You have already met René and Renée. Now let's meet Gilles and Benoit. Gilles is a stout little fellow with a wide round face, wide set eyes, and red hair cut short. Benoit is skinny, or perhaps gangly, with close set eyes, and a face all nose and chin. These four children have been friends since they were toddlers, and have always got along well, except when they don't.

On this particular morning, with poles and line and hooks and bait, they were attempting to catch fish. While thus occupied, Benoit let out a sigh. "I haven't seen Emily smile in weeks," he said.

"Neither have I," said Renée.

"Nor I," said René.

"Nor I," said Gilles.

"And she won't tell me what's wrong," said Benoit.

"Somebody must have died," said Renée. "When Grandma died, Mama didn't smile for weeks. She just cried and cried."

"I still hear her crying sometimes," said René.

"Because you don't behave."

"Nah ah."

"You still hear who crying?" asked Benoit.

"Mama," said René.

"Oh, I thought you meant Emily."

"I haven't heard Emily crying."

"But she looks so sad," said Renée.

"Who looks sad?" asked Benoit. "Your mama?"

"No, Emily."

"We should try to cheer her up," said Gilles.

"I have tried," said Benoit.

"So have I," said René.

"So have I, said Renée.

Having said all they had to say, the children sat in silence, preoccupied with various thoughts. Don't ask me what they were. I cannot read minds.

It was then that Emily walked down the dirt path toward the stream, holding a pole in one hand, and a bucket in the other. She was wearing a plain black dress with a plain white apron and bonnet. When she arrived, she put down the bucket, and extracted a little jar from inside. From inside the jar, she extracted a worm. Putting the worm on the hook, she threw a line out into the water, and sat down on the bank. The other children were watching her every move.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I haven't been much fun lately."

"Will you tell us why you've been so sad?" asked Renée.

"Yes, I will tell you." After a short pause, Emily let out a sigh. "Someone very dear to me has moved far, far away." A tear trickled down her chubby little cheek. She wiped it away with her tiny fingers. "It seems like just yesterday, I held her as a baby, and watched her grow from a child into a beautiful young lady. And now she's gone."

"Why don't you go to see her?" asked René. "When Aunt Simone moved to Paris, we went to see her."

"If it was just Paris, I wouldn't be sad. Ruthie moved all the way across the ocean."

"What's an ocean?"

"What's an ocean? Have you ever seen Lake Molyneaux?"

"Um hmm."

"The ocean is a million times bigger - maybe a billion."

"That big?"

"Yes, that big."

"Wow."

"Exactly."

"Now I understand," said Renée.

"But we will always be together, won't we?" asked Benoit.

"Probably not," said Emily. "Things will change when you grow up. They always do."

"But I don't want anything to change."

"Of course not." Gazing off into the distance, Emily let out another long sigh. "I remember when I was like you, many, many years ago. I didn't want anything to change either."

The children stared at her, uncomprehending.

"Never mind," she said. "I'm only reminiscing. Let's have fun together while we can."

Now these five children might have remained in this melancholy mood, for who knows how long, if something unusual hadn't happened to snap them out of it. A fish caught hold of Benoit's hook, jerking the pole out of his hands and dragging it away. Jumping quickly to his feet, he dove into the stream, emerging triumphant, with pole in hand, to a chorus of cheers and giggles. And he would have jumped in a thousand more times if he knew he would get the same result. Emily, ankle deep in the water, was offering him her hand… and smiling.


	8. Chapter 8

The Child Lives On

Chapter Eight

Familiar faces flitted by and disappeared - Mama, Daddy, Celia, Gordon and others I have known - haunting spirits moving in and out, back and forth. Though out of reach, wispy, and without substance, I gave chase and tried desperately to catch them. "Where are you?" I cried. "Over here," they said. "No, over here. Come with us." In a field by the old family farm, dandelions bloomed. I ran and ran, laughing and giggling, tumbling over, rolling, rolling, rolling, forgetting what came before. The farmhouse disappeared. A ship's deck hovered under my floating feet. The sea and sky blurred together like a child's painting smeared with little hands. Gordon stood before me. No, not Gordon, Daddy. Then again, not Daddy, Victor and Ruthie waving goodbye. _Don't go! Please don't go!_ Hammering, hammering, hammering: Bang! Bang! Bang! _What is that noise?_ Persistent hammering followed me wherever I roamed. _What could it be?_ Though I tried, I couldn't outrun it. No matter where I turned, it was there. My eyes opened a crack. All was dark. The hammering continued unabated. Dragging myself from the bed, bones and muscles stiff and aching, I donned a robe and slippers. "I'll be right there," I called out, lighting a candle and shuffling wearily to the door.

On the stoop was Officer Renault, our local constable, standing straight and tall, his large chin jutting out. Emily, beside him, was almost imperceptible.

"What time is it?" I mumbled.

"Two o'clock, Madame," said the officer smartly.

"What's happening? Why are you here?"

"We caught your granddaughter dancing naked around a fire under the full moon."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke, Madame. She was with a whole gang of them."

"A whole gang of what?"

"Children dancing naked around a fire under the full moon. Like little savages, they were."

"And Emily was one of them?"

"Yes, Madame, indeed she was."

"I don't believe this."

"Perhaps you're not aware, Madame, but your granddaughter has been running with a bad crowd."

"A bad crowd... of children?"

"This isn't the first time the lot of them have been up to some sort of mischief."

"I'll keep an eye on her, I promise."

"Please do. Goodnight, Madame."

"Goodnight, officer."

He shook a finger at Emily. "Remember what I told you."

"Yes, Monsieur," she said meekly.

With a tip of his cap, he was gone.

Emily hurried by me. I followed her into the kitchen. Taking the candle from my hand, she stepped up onto a stool and lit the oil lamp on the table. "Emily," I said, "did I hear that right? You were dancing naked?"

Stepping off of the stool and grabbing a small shovel, she shoveled some coal from the coal scuttle into the stove, and pumped the bellows to urge the embers into becoming a fire. "I suppose we did get a little carried away," she said in an off-hand sort of way.

"But why?"

She pushed the stool over to the stove, stepped up onto it, and poured water from a jug into the kettle. "I don't know. It just sort of happened."

"These things don't just happen."

Stepping off the stool, and pushing it over to the table with her feet, she stepped back onto it and spooned some tea into the teapot which we kept on the table. "Jean and Pierre suggested it, and the rest of us followed right along like little lemmings. Why don't you sit down?"

Without thinking, I did as she bid. "And what, pray tell, were you doing out at this time of night?"

"Well…" She tapped her tiny chin with a tiny finger and considered for a moment. Her bright green eyes had a far-away look. "We were fishing this afternoon down by the stream, and someone mentioned the full moon, and, you know, one thing led to another.

I shook my head and sighed, "Emily, Emily, Emily, how old are you?"

She cast a sidelong glance at me. "Sixty."

"And what would you think if I was dancing naked under a full moon?"

"I would think you had lost your marbles."

"So what am I supposed to think?"

"Maybe I lost my marbles?"

Stepping down off the stool, she pushed it back to the stove, stepped up on it, fetched the kettle, which was steaming, stepped down and pushed the stool back to the table, stepped up on it, and poured the hot water into the teapot; then, stepping down, pushed the stool back to the stove, stepped up on it, and carefully set the kettle on top of the stove; then, pushing the stool back to the table, she stepped up on it, crossed her arms, and stared at the teapot, waiting for the tea to steep.

Meanwhile, I was trying to wrap my head around the idea that this normally modest child had been cavorting in the nude. What was going on in that little head of hers? I was too curious to let it go. "Were you touching or…"

"No, no touching," she said, "just dancing - wild like animals… and howling."

"Howling?"

"Like wolves."

"I don't believe this."

"We were only having a little fun."

"It's these new friends of yours, isn't it? They're leading you astray."

The tea being sufficiently steeped, she lifted the pot and poured the tea out into two cups. Then she stepped off the stool and climbed into her special chair, which was high enough so that her head was even with the rest of us (when there was a rest of us), and sat in her usual prim way, sipping the tea delicately, like an old lady. Long ago, Gordon made the chair especially for her, carefully measuring so it fit her properly, and was easy to get into and out of.

"Maybe I'm leading them astray." she said. "If Officer Renault had known my true age..."

"That was Benoit, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes, it was."

"Didn't he recognize you?"

"Interesting you should ask. I greet him when I'm in town, but he refuses to believe I'm the same Emily he knew as a child. He'll say, "I knew a little girl like you once," and off he goes.

"If I remember correctly, he was madly in love with you."

"Puppy love."

"Puppy love?"

"Or infatuation. I've seen it from other boys. They soon grow out of it. Remember Tommy and NIgel and…"

"I remember Tommy. He used to come to the farm just to stare at us."

"He has grandchildren now."

"I know."

"So do you."

"Yes, but I'll never know them."

"You know them through their letters."

"I suppose that'll have to do."

"Your tea is getting cold."

"Hey! Don't change the subject. I'm supposed to be reprimanding you."

"If it makes you happy, give me a good tongue-lashing."

"Okay. Here goes." I shook my finger at her and tried to muster up some indignation. "Young lady, do you know what time it is?"

"It doesn't matter," she said with a shrug. "I'm taking the day off. The weeds can wait."

"What about the tonics?"

"I finished this week's batch yesterday."

"Well, alright."

"Is that it?"

"I don't have the energy. Are you going to bed?"

"Not just yet."

"Wanna do something?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"Fishing."

"Kind of early, isn't it?"

"There's a full moon, remember?"

"Okay, I'll get the gear."

At around four o'clock, Emily and I walked down to the stream (about a quarter of a mile from the cottage), carrying our fishing gear, a pot of coffee, and some sandwiches. We were still there when the sun was beginning to chase the moon away. Our bucket was full of fish, so I laid my pole aside and stretched out on the bank, placing my hands behind my head.

Emily stood up, shed her clothes and jumped in the water, swimming and splashing about. I sat up and watched her, marveling at her tiny undeveloped body, which hadn't changed at all in fifty two years. Holding up my wrinkled and spotted hands in front of my face, I asked myself, _Would I change places with her?_ I didn't have an answer. There are pros and cons to every situation. It might be nice to remain a child, but as a child, I would never have known the joys and heartaches of marriage and motherhood.

"Come in! Come in!" she shouted. "The water feels good!"

"I can't," I said. "I didn't bring my bathing clothes."

"You don't need them."

"Yes I do. What if somebody sees me?"

"Are you afraid you'll arouse someone?"

"Arouse? What do you know about that?"

"I don't know anything about it. Are you coming in?"

I stood up, walked to the edge of the stream and stuck a toe in the water. Brrr, it was cold.

"You have to jump in," said Emily, splashing water in my direction.

Looking carefully around, I made certain nobody was nearby. All was quiet, except for Emily's splashing and giggling. "I really have lost my marbles," I muttered, throwing caution to the wind. Removing my bonnet, dress and undergarments, I jumped into the water. After the initial shock, it felt invigorating and refreshing. Emily splashed water on me and I retaliated enthusiastically. We played and frolicked until one of us spotted a fisherman on the bank about a hundred yards away. You've never seen two ladies dress so quickly, laughing and giggling all the while.

As we walked hand-in-hand toward home, the sun was hovering over our little cottage. A lighthearted feeling came over me, which I hadn't felt in a long, long time. Emily and I exchanged smiles. Perhaps I was imagining it, but she seemed a little too smug. She planned this little escapade to shock me out of my doldrums, I was certain of it. You see, ever since Gordon died, I had been wallowing in self-pity. Now, Emily has never been one to browbeat or nag. In fact, she goes out of her way to avoid confrontation. So, in order to get my attention, she did something completely out of character, like dancing naked under a full moon.


	9. Chapter 9

The Child Lives On

Chapter Nine

Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we are traveling back in time to the year 1846. As you can see, we are floating high in the air. On our left, the Atlantic Ocean stretches out as far as the eye can see. On our right is the continent of Europe. As we descend, the coastlines of England and France become clearer, to the point where they almost touch. Do not worry. We will not fall. All is... No! Wait! We are approaching too fast. Put on the breaks! Put on the breaks! Ah, ha-ha-ha... Thank you. That was close.

As we touch down, gently, a quaint little French town appears before us. The light is just beginning to penetrate the darkness, turning everything various shades of gray. Moving a little closer, we find a small cottage, clean and well cared for, with plant life flourishing inside and out. Moving closer still, we enter a neat and tidy bedroom. An old lady is lying still upon a bed, her body covered with blankets. In the chair next to the bed, a small child weeps. Tears flow freely. As you can see, she is heartbroken. "Oh, Clara," she sobs, "why did you leave me?"

Wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief, the child hops out of the chair, then on tiptoes, she gently kisses the lady. Treading lightly on tiny feet, she dons her cloak, bonnet and shoes and leaves the cottage. Next, we find her on the doorstep of the poste de police.

Sergeant Renault is at his desk, sipping coffee and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He is tall and lanky. His long thin face is adorned with an ample supply of nose and chin. The child catches his eye. "Mademoiselle, you are up early."

She approaches the desk, wringing her little hands. "Monsieur, I must speak with you."

"Speak away, by all means."

"Granny is dead."

"That is too bad."

"She is in the cottage."

He rises, slipping on his cap. "Show me the way, little one."

The child watches as somber men in dark coats wrap up the lady and carry her away. She trembles, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. Though it is summer, she feels a chill. With a handkerchief, she wipes her face, wet with dew and tears. Sergeant Renault speaks to her. He is gentle with the child. "Mademoiselle, is there anyone to care for you?"

Fearing a trip to the orphanage, she makes up a lie. "I have an aunt in Barfleur."

"Will she come for you?"

"I will go to her." She holds out some coins in her tiny hand. "Here is money for passage."

"Very well. I will see you safely on the coach."

Outside the only inn in town, a coach-driver is loading luggage onto a coach. He is small and wiry. His face and hands are wrinkled and weathered. His coat and hat are made of sturdy leather- weathered like his skin. Sergeant Renault speaks to him. "Will you see that this child arrives safely to her aunt's in Barfleur?" The driver assures him that he will. The child is lifted into the coach. She has only a small cloth-bag, filled with odds and ends, which is placed at her feet. Two middle-aged ladies take up positions on either side of her, leaving little room. Her arms are pinned to her sides. Unable to knit, which calms her when she is anxious, and overwhelmed by strong perfume, she braces for a long unpleasant journey.

Little does she know, the journey will take ten days. To spare us what she will endure, we will fast forward to the final day of the journey. We can do that, she can't.

As the coach approaches Barfleur, we see the child still squished between two ladies, though not the same two ladies as at the beginning. They talk over her, as if she isn't there. One complains about her husband. The other, the help. The child has heard this conversation many times before.

She has been ignored, but not neglected. When the coach stopped for a night, one lady or another gave her a hot meal, a bath and a convenient closet to sleep in. These little kindnesses made an otherwise unpleasant journey bearable.

The coach stops. A lady nudges her. "Wake up child," she says. The child rubs her eyes, yawns and stretches. Awake, she hops out of the coach onto the street. A crowd engulfs her. She is momentarily lost among the giants, buffeted and nearly trampled, holding tightly to her cloth-bag. When she emerges, slightly disheveled, the coach is gone. Now that she has arrived, what will she do?

Purchasing some bread and cold meat at a shop, she sits on a rock, staring out at the sea, and nibbles absentmindedly until her hunger is sated. The beautiful colors of the sunset distract her, but only temporarily. She must find a place to sleep.

The inn is large and imposing. The foyer is empty. A man is sitting behind a desk, writing. Hearing soft footsteps, he looks up. A child is standing before him. "Monsieur," she says, "I would like to rent a room for the night."

"I will not rent to unaccompanied children," is his terse response.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I am not a child. I - I - I am a midget."

"And I am Napoléon. Run along home."

"But…"

"I am not in the mood for pranks. Run along."

It is dark. She has been chased from every inn. Knocking on house-doors is out of the question. A secluded doorway offers shelter. "I have been foolish," she says. "I thought I knew what to do. Without Clara, I am lost. What will become of me?" Laying her head on her cloth-bag, she falls into a fitful sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The Child Lives On

Chapter Ten

While brushing back the curtains to let in the morning light, I noticed a small child sitting on the stoop in front of my café, knitting. Curious, I observed for a minute or two. Unlike the grimy beggars who usually haunted my place, she was clean, and wearing a pretty dress and bonnet.

I poked my head out the door. "Mademoiselle, what are you doing out here?"

"Granny died," was her answer.

"That is too bad."

"Yes, it is."

"What is your name?"

"Emily."

"I am Jacques."

Turning her head around, she looked up at me. Her face was round, with chubby cheeks, and a tiny nose and mouth. Light red eyebrows hovered over her bright green eyes like crescent moons. "Is this your café?" she asked.

"Yes, it is," was my answer.

"Do you mind if I sit here for a while?"

"Have you no where else to go?"

"No, Monsieur. I have nowhere to go."

"Wait right here. I will return."

In my kitchen, I spread a pat of butter on some leftover bread and poured water into a cup. The child thanked me most politely when I presented the meager offering. Returning to the kitchen, I began preparations for the day.

While kneading some dough for bread, I glanced at some potatoes and vegetables in need of attention. An idea came into my mind. I stepped outside. The child was nibbling daintily on the slice of bread. "Mademoiselle," I said, "are you able to peel and chop vegetables?"

"Yes, Monsieur," she said.

"Come inside. I will pay you for your time."

Setting her to work, I thought she would fumble around with a carrot or two, as any small child would do. Much to my astonishment, she peeled and sliced the carrots quickly and efficiently, handling the knife like a professional. Obviously, it was not her first time in a kitchen. Potatoes, onions, whatever I needed, she handled with equal dexterity. She even cleaned the fish and prepared sauces, with little or no instruction from me. In all my years as a café owner, I have employed many people. Few would equal her in quantity and quality of work. The only thing she could not do was lift heavy bags or trays.

My cottage is situated behind my café. When lunch had been prepared, and ready to be served, I sent the child to the cottage for some rest. It has always been my understanding that small children do not have much stamina and need to nap often. At three o'clock, when the lunch crowd had departed, I went to the cottage to see how she fared. Much to my surprise, I found the cottage swept, cleaned and organized. The child was sitting in a chair, knitting. "Mademoiselle," I said, "do you intend to make this your home?"

Still concentrating on her knitting, she said, "Monsieur, do you want me to leave?"

"Come, Mademoiselle, let us not be hasty. I have prepared a lunch for you in the café. We will talk this over while we dine."

Needless to say, I could not allow this little gem to get away, so I offered her a job and a place to stay. Much to my surprise and delight, she accepted my offer.

My wife died ten years earlier. We talked of having children. After the tragedy, I stumbled blindly through the darkness, movements merely habit without thought, with no real purpose in my life. Then this child showed up out of the blue, and gave me a reason to live again.

However, it wasn't long before tongues began to wag and busybodies were poking their noses in our business. City authorities came around, and Emily was removed to the orphanage until the situation could be fully investigated. To complicate matters, Emily remembered very little about herself. All she seemed to know was that her granny died; but who her granny was, and where she was from, remained a mystery.

Determined to have her back, I took what action I could - filling out paperwork, cleaning and redecorating the cottage, buying new furniture, and so on. Having lived in Barfleur all of my life, and always an upstanding citizen, I saw no reason I could not adopt the child. Not everyone agreed. The more influential ladies in town (Madame Musaraigne, an old sour face, in particular) were scandalized at the thought of a single man caring for a little girl alone. My assurances of decorum and proper behavior fell on deaf ears.

I did not give up, however. Every afternoon, for months on end, and in all kinds of weather, I walked to city hall and spoke with Monsieur Forgeron, the clerk. He would kindly tell me, "No news yet." Then I would proceed to the church, and speak with Sister Giselle, who was in charge of the orphanage. "Monsieur," she would say, "every effort is being made to find a suitable home for the child." Then I would invariably say, "My home is suitable." To which she would reply, "That may very well be. A decision has yet to be made."

My long-time friend, Robert, confronted me in the café. "Jacques, my friend," he said, "you have not been coming to the tavern."

"No, no, I must not," I said, "for appearances sake."

He took umbrage, slamming his hand on the counter. "We are not bad men. There is nothing wrong with drinking with your friends."

"Perhaps not, but Sister Giselle and Madame Musaraigne will not see it that way."

"Is the child so important? Will you turn your back on your friends?"

"I have not turned my back on my friends. We can fish, play games, talk, joke, any number of things, but drinking in the tavern is out."

He crossed his arms and frowned. "Your mind is made up?"

"Yes."

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

"Very well." Sticking out his hand, he smiled. "Good luck to you, my friend. Your friends are behind you."

I shook his hand, said, "Thank you," and wondered who was testing me.

As time went on, doubt and despair haunted me, keeping me up at night. Questions abounded. Were the ladies right? Was I unsuitable? Were my motives pure? Did I really care for the child? Or was it just her marvelous work-ethic? In spite of my doubts, I persevered.

Month after month, I kept to the same routine, until a decision was made. In the end, someone up above was smiling on me. The authorities were unable to find another home for the child, though they had tried desperately. Emily was returned, but not without stipulations. Inspections would be forthcoming. My life would continue to be laid bare.

When Emily walked through the cottage door, my heart rejoiced. Even the sour face of Madame Musaraigne, and the subsequent long-winded lecture, could not dampen my spirits.

"My child," she said to Emily, "you must tell me if you are the least bit uncomfortable or mistreated."

"Madame," said Emily, "Monsieur Davignon is a fine man, who has always treated me well."

"Even so, I will be back to check on you often."

"You are welcome at any time."

The lady turned to me, a stern look on her face. "Monsieur Davignon."

"Yes, Madame."

"The improvements you have made, concerning yourself and your cottage, have impressed everyone, including myself."

"Thank you."

"I am sure we can agree, Mademoiselle Charbonneau's welfare is of prime importance."

"Yes, Madame, I agree wholeheartedly."

"Very well, Monsieur. A good day to you."

"And a good day to you, Madame."

As she marched out of the cottage, with her back rigid, and her nose in the air, I wondered if she ever smiled.

Emily and I were alone at last. After all the waiting, my dream had finally come true.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "this is your home, to do with as you please."

"The cottage is beautiful, Monsieur," she said. "Did you do this for me?"

"For both of us, my dear."

"How very thoughtful."

She floated around the cottage, poking her cute little nose into every room. When she came to her bedroom, she exclaimed, "What cute little furniture!"

"Do you like it?"

"It is darling. I love it."

"I am glad."

"How did you know I would like strawberry wallpaper?"

"A lucky guess."

Performing a graceful pirouette, she turned to face me. "Monsieur, I have a request."

"Anything you desire, my dear."

"I wish to establish a business."

"A business? What sort of business?"

"Herbal remedies."

"Oh? Is this something new?"

"No, Monsieur. I have always had an interest in herbs."

"Have you?"

"There is one problem."

"What is it?"

"I will require a garden, but I am not physically able to till the ground."

"Of course, you are so tiny. How large of a plot will you need?"

"The whole yard."

"The whole yard?"

"Yes. And if I succeed in this venture, I hope to purchase the land next door."

"You have thought this out, I see."

"When one is idle, one has time to think. There was very little to do in the orphanage."

"My dear, you are a most unusual child."

"You have been most gracious, Monsieur. I do not wish to be a burden."

"My dear, you could do nothing at all, and still not be a burden."

"If I were lazy, you would soon tire of it."

"I think not; but come, let us not argue. Is there anything else you desire?"

"Let me think." She rubbed her tiny chin, and pursed her lips, then thrust a finger in the air. "A workshop. I will need a workshop. The kitchen will do nicely, I think."

"Your wish is my command, my dear. But first, we must celebrate."

"Celebrate?" She cocked her head to the side, like a curious little puppy. "What do you have in mind?"

"A party."

"A party?"

"Yes, a party. At this very moment, my friends are waiting for us in the café."

"Are they?"

"And all of your little orphan friends are there as well."

Her smile brought out the dimples in her chubby little cheeks. "How wonderful," she said. "We are sure to have fun."

I offered her my arm. "Shall we proceed to the café, my dear?"

Placing her tiny hand in the crook of my arm, she said, "With pleasure, Monsieur."

And so my life began again, with a most unusual child by my side. If my wife were here, I am sure she would approve.


	11. Chapter 11

The Child Lives On

Chapter Eleven

Cold sea-air slapped my face, turning it red and raw. A light drizzle dampened my hat and coat. The coach, traveling as fast as two horses could pull it, was rocking side-to-side on a rough, muddy road, attempting to throw me off. Holding on for dear life, on top next to the driver, I listened to his steady chatter, not understanding a word he said. Inside, the coach was full to the brim, and much too cramped for a man with legs as long as mine. Having just turned sixty, I was risking life and health on this journey. What brought me out of my nice warm home and set me on such an adventure? Elixirs, my friend. Heavenly elixirs, with such health-giving benefits, I couldn't possibly live without them. In other words, I was risking my health for the sake of my health.

Monsieur Marteau's apothecary, located in a little town near Calais, France, was the only shop I knew which carried these heavenly elixirs. Twice a year, for many years, a case had been delivered to my home. When the usual shipment didn't arrive as scheduled, I went into a panic, and dashed off a letter of inquiry. Receiving no response, other than, "No longer available", I set sail for France, determined to find some answers. Yes, it was that important.

Monsieur Marteau's shop was located in the same place, and Monsieur Marteau was still in his shop, but the elixirs were, as he had said in his letter, no longer available. "Alas," he said, "Madame Sommersby has died."

"Such terrible news," I said. "And what about her daughter?"

"Daughter? What daughter?"

"She had two daughters."

"I know of no daughter."

"Was no one ever with her?"

"No."

"No?"

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Now that I think about it, she did bring a little girl with her now and then, but I do not know her name."

"A little girl?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe her?"

"I am afraid not. All little girls…"

"I must find this girl."

"Why?"

"She might know where I might find Emily."

"Emily? Who is Emily?"

"Madame Sommersby's daughter."

"Ah."

"Emily would be a young woman by now."

"I see."

"Let me think…" I tapped my chin and considered. "She would be pretty, I'm sure, with auburn hair, green eyes, dimples..."

"No, Monsieur, never, though I wish I had."

"This is quite vexing. Is there nothing else you can tell me?"

"That is all I know, Monsieur. Perhaps Sergeant Renault can help you."

"Sergeant Renault?"

"You will find him at the police station."

Sergeant Renault was indeed at the police station, and helpful. "I remember very well," he said. "I put the child on a coach to Barfleur."

"Was there anyone with her?" I asked. "A young woman perhaps?"

"No, no, she was alone."

"And this child was living with Madame Sommersby?"

"Yes."

"Who was she? Do you know?"

"Her granddaughter."

"Granddaughter?"

"Yes."

"Was anyone with them in the cottage?"

"No, no, it was just the two of them."

"This is most confusing. How long ago did the child leave town?"

"A year or so, perhaps."

"Why Barfleur?"

"She has an aunt living there."

"And there was no one else with her?"

"You have already asked that question."

"Do you know her name? The child, I mean."

"Certainly. Her name is Emily Charbonneau."

"Emily Charbonneau?" By this time I was thoroughly confused. _Did Emily marry a man named Charbonneau and name her daughter Emily? Did Ruth name her daughter Emily and, for some reason, send her back here? No, no, that wouldn't be right. Ruth's name is Willoughby. It would have to be Emily's daughter, wouldn't it? _My mind was spinning like a top.

Having this one clue, I was determined to follow it up. Barfleur was the obvious place to go, though I wasn't sure what I would find when I got there. And that, my friend, is how wound up on that wild ride in inclimate weather next to a chatty driver I didn't understand.

A fortnight on top of a coach would try even the youngest and stoutest of men. By the time we reached Barfleur, I was too exhausted to think of anything but finding a meal and a bed. Taking advantage of a conveniently located inn, I did just that.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, I chatted with the innkeeper - a jolly fat man with a long curly mustache, which he twiddled incessantly. "How may I help you, Monsieur," he said, trying to speak English.

"I am looking for an apothecary," I said.

"Do you have the headache?"

"Um… no."

"We have the asperin here at the inn."

"No, thank you. I am looking for something else."

"Perhaps you desire the guide."

"The guide? I mean, a guide?"

"My son would be happy to lead you to your destination."

"Your son?"

"He knows Barfleur like the back of his hand."

"Thank you. That would be most helpful."

He turned and yelled for his son. A young dark-haired sulky-looking lad appeared by his side. They spoke French, in a dialect I had a hard time following. To make a long story short, the boy, somewhat reluctantly, agreed to be my guide. In my mind, I questioned how a boy so young could know Barfleur like the back of his hand, but kept it to myself, not wishing to make a scene. After leaving the inn, he led me to an apothecary a block away, which I could very easily have found myself. In the street outside the shop, he looked up at me, rather defiantly, and held out his hand. When I gave him a coin, he ran off, and that was the last I saw of him.

The apothecary, a small, bald man in a white coat, was friendly and helpful. In his shop, he carried a stock of elixirs, but they were not the kind I was looking for.

"Is there another apothecary in town?" I asked.

"Yes, Monsieur," he said, "on the other side of town, near the sea."

"Is there cab service in Barfleur?"

"Certainly. My brother just happens…"

"Thank you. How do I find him?"

He stepped out the back door and shouted. Someone shouted back. Again, I understood only bits and pieces. The apothecary returned to the counter. "He will meet you out in the front of the store." The cab, if you can call it that, was more like a farm-wagon, but better than walking, though just as slow. The horse was old and tired, and had seen better days. Children ran alongside, laughing. Apparently, strangers in farm-wagons are entertaining. At around noon, after a scenic tour through town, we reach the apothecary. I paid the man for his troubles and sent him on his way. When it came time to return to the inn, I would find a faster, more comfortable conveyance.

This apothecary, another small, bald man in a white coat (a family business, perhaps?), carried a stock of elixirs as well, but again, not the kind I was looking for. I had reached a dead end, and needed time to think. First things first, however, I was famished, and there just happened to be a café located next door. At the one remaining table (the place was quite crowded), I enjoyed some freshly caught fish, freshly picked vegetables, and a glass of wine. While enjoying the meal, I considered my options. Nothing came to me. My mind was blank. Frustration was setting in. Would I go home empty handed? Would I have to give up my glorious elixirs? Did I endure this long journey for nothing?

As I was getting up to leave, I heard the word 'tonics' and pricked up my ears. An old lady was speaking with the man behind the counter. I moved closer to hear what they were saying.

"Emily's tonics have me feeling twenty years younger," said the old lady.

"I have heard similar reports from others," said the man.

"And her vegetables, well, I have never seen or tasted anything like them."

"Indeed, she has the magic touch."

A chill ran up and down my spine. Could this be the Emily I was looking for?

After the old lady departed, I approached the man at the counter and asked for a tonic. When I tasted it, I knew it was the right one. "Sir," I said, "I would like to meet the person responsible for this heavenly elixir."

"Eh?" he said.

In my excitement I had reverted to English. I repeated myself in French.

"Ah," he said, with a smile. "You would like to meet Emily. Wait a few minutes, and she will be here."

Ordering another glass of wine, I sat down to wait. Time dragged. I ordered another glass. Would she ever come? I approached the man again. "I assure you," he said, "she will be here soon." At last, she came in. When I saw her, I glanced suspiciously at my glass of wine, thinking it might have affected my brain. What I was seeing just wasn't possible. Here, in front of me, was the same little girl I had known in London so many years before.

The man behind the counter spoke to her and pointed to me. She turned and looked in my direction. A smile of recognition came over her little face, bringing out the familiar dimples. Skipping over to me, she said, "Monsieur Johnson, it is good to see you again. What brings you to Barfleur?"

"My dear," I said, "do you think we might speak English? My French is only so-so…"

"Of course."

"Are you the same girl I knew in London?"

"Yes."

"So you are. I thought I might have had too much wine. Your name is Emily Charbonneau?"

"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."

"I thought it was Sommersby."

"No, no, that was a… How you say? A trick?"

"A trick?"

"No, no, a disguise."

"I think you mean alias."

"Yes, yes, that is the word. Would you like to see my garden?"

"I would love to see your garden."

Leaving the café, we strolled casually through her beautiful garden and talked of old times. In the course of events, I offered my condolences for the loss of her mother. "Monsieur Johnson," she said, "Clara was not my mother. She was my cousin."

"But she told everyone she was your mother."

"No, no, she never told anyone. Everyone assumed."

"But she didn't contradict."

"It was easier than explaining..."

"Yes, yes, I can see how it would be."

"Monsieur Johnson, you have not told me, why are you in Barfleur?"

"My dear, I ran out of elixirs."

A hand went to her mouth. She gasped, "How careless of me! I will pack up a case for you right away."

In the middle of the garden stood a cottage. Inside, the kitchen had been transformed into a workshop, with jars stacked on shelves all along three walls, and several tables situated in the middle. The table legs were cut in half. Seeing them, I chuckled. Once upon a time, that had been my idea.

"If this is your workshop," I said, "where do you cook?"

"Monsieur Davignon and I eat in the café."

"Monsieur Davignon?"

"The owner of the café."

"You mean the stocky man with curly black hair?"

"That is him. This is his cottage. He is my guardian."

"Do you really need a guardian?"

"Indeed I do."

"It would seem to me, you are of age."

"Yes, but there are other considerations."

"How so?"

"To society at large, a person of my stature is helpless and in need of a guardian. I do not complain because it suits me to have a guardian. However, I have never been a freeloader. I would like to make that clear."

"Of course not, my dear. You industry is well known, to me at least."

While we were conversing, she filled a wooden crate with jars, and packed it all around with hay.

"Monsieur Johnson," she said, "I would ask a favor."

"Anything, my dear."

"Do not tell Monsieur Davignon about me. It would be better for him to find out on his own."

"Why?"

"If I told him the truth, he would not believe me."

"That makes sense, I think. How old were you when I knew you in London?"

"I would rather not say."

"But you were not a child."

"No, I was not."

"That explains a lot."

"Most people do not observe too closely. Little girls are easily overlooked and dismissed."

"Even if they did observe, most, as with your guardian, would not believe what they observed."

"Do you believe what you have observed?"

"Let me put it this way: If someone had told me, I would not have believed it; but now that I see it… well…"

"Seeing is believing?"

"It does help."

"Monsieur Johnson, will you be staying long in Barfleur?"

"A day or two, I think."

"Will you come to see me again?"

"I would be happy to."

A smile lit up her pretty face. "Monsieur Johnson, seeing you takes me back to some wonderful days, to Clara and Ruth and Victor…" Again, a hand went to her mouth, and she gasped, "Oh! I am so sorry!"

This amused me greatly. She still remembered my infatuation with Ruth a lifetime before. "You needn't be sorry, my dear. I have only pleasant thoughts for the happy couple."

"You are such a kind man."

"Have you heard from Ruth and Victor lately?"

"No, I have not."

"Do they know her mother died?"

"I assume a solicitor has contacted them."

"Where are they?"

"Toronto."

"You haven't seen or talked to them?"

"No. They might have sent a letter to the cottage, but I have not been back there in some time."

"I'll check for you."

"You will?"

"When I return, I'll let you know."

"You plan to return?"

"Certainly. This is a lovely spot for a vacation, don't you think?"

"Oh, it is, it is, and you will always be welcomed with a smile."

After nailing the lid shut on the crate, she wheeled a small wagon over to the table. "Allow me," I said, lifting the crate and placing it in the wagon. "How much do I owe you?"

"Settle with Monsieur Davignon, if you do not mind," she said. "I will have him give you a discount."

"But you have worked so hard making this," I said. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of your rightful..."

"Will you be coming back for more?"

"Of course."

"And you are buying bulk."

"Funny you should know that term."

"Clara taught me about business. I remember a few things."

"You must miss her."

"I do, terribly." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Forgive me, my dear. I didn't intend to make you cry."

She turned from me, and wept. "Monsieur Johnson, I cry because I am ashamed. When Clara died, I panicked and fled, abandoning her to strangers."

Attempting to conciliate, I murmured, "Was it your first time alone?"

"Yes."

"It's hard to be alone, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is hard, but that does not make it right."

"I'm sure Clara would understand."

"Perhaps, but I have to live with myself."

"My dear, dry those tears. In life, we make mistakes. We learn from them and move on. It's all we can do."

She turned around and looked up at me, her bright green eyes glistened. "That is what I tell myself, Monsieur. It is very good advice. The trouble is, I do not always take good advice."

Removing a handkerchief from my pocket, I gently wiped the tears from her face. "Join the club, my dear. Join the club."

I spent a week in Barfleur, dining often with Emily and Monsieur Davignon - who insisted I call him Jacques. When the week was up, I was sorry to leave, but duty was calling, and I had to return to London. I sailed from Barfleur to England on a ship. Needless to say, it was faster and more comfortable than my journey by coach. Yes, I know I made a promise to Emily. I would keep that promise sometime in the future. However, returning with my cargo intact was foremost in my mind. So you see, sometimes a risk pays off. When I walked through the door of my home, I was a happy man.


	12. Chapter 12

The Child Lives On

Chapter Twelve

Weeds were taking possession of the yard, overrunning the stone path which led to the door. The exterior of the small stone cottage was weathered and worn, and the eaves, doorways and windows were covered with webs. Using the key which had been given to me by Grandmother's solicitor, I pushed open the door. The hinges squeaked. Leonard, my college chum and traveling companion, entered first. Inside, the cottage was as neat as a pin, though a layer of dust had settled on the furniture and the floor. "It doesn't look like anyone's been here for a while," I said, stating the obvious.

"I think you're right," said Leonard.

"Where has Emily gone? Mother said..."

"I expect she's in an orphanage."

"An orphanage?"

"They're not going to let a child live all alone, even one who..."

"She's not a child."

"But your mother said…"

"Did you really believe that fairytale?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"But it's so far-fetched."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of…"

"You and your Shakespeare."

"Anyway, she's not here. We'll have to look elsewhere."

As a reward for graduating at the top of my class, Father sent me on a trip to Europe, to broaden my horizons, as it were, before settling down to a career in business. Our first stop was to be London, so Mother asked me to speak with her mother's solicitor while there. The solicitor, in turn, asked me to stop by the cottage. Since crossing the channel was already on the itinerary, it wasn't too far out of the way.

The voyage across Lake Ontario, up the St. Lawrence and across the Atlantic, began with calm seas and sunny skies, lulling us into a false sense of security. Then all hell broke loose - including, but not limited to: intense fog, rough seas and storms, which I thought would be the end of me, and a bout of seasickness, which again, I thought would be the end of me. When we finally set foot on dry land, I swayed like a drunk for many days after.

London was everything I dreamed it would be. Its architecture, history and interesting highways and byways thrilled me to no end. Charles Willoughby, a cousin of some sort, charming and affable, and like Leonard and myself, just out of college, was our host and guide. A dashing man-about-town, he was of the right class, knew the right people and had entry into all the right places. The nightlife, shows, parties and elegant, sophisticated young ladies nearly swept me off my feet. However, I had a career to attend to when I returned to Canada, and since my father was footing the bill for this excursion, it was necessary to show a modicum of good sense.

Leonard cried out triumphantly, "Aha!"

"What have you found?" I asked.

He was in a bedroom, holding up a very small frock. "Proof!"

I rolled my eyes. "It only proves that someone here was very small."

"Why don't you believe your mother?"

"Let's just say, Mother has a habit of spinning tall-tales. You should hear some of her bedtime stories."

"I wish I could. My mother has absolutely no imagination at all."

In a dresser drawer, I found a few modest undergarments. Some small frocks were still hanging in the wardrobe. A tiny bed, neatly made, sat up against one wall. Aside from a few knitted items, the room was sparsely decorated. All in all, it seemed much too austere for a child.

While we were having a look around, someone knocked on the front door.

"Who could that be?" I asked.

"There's only one way to find out," said Leonard.

He was an older man (sixty or so, I'm guessing), very tall, with a long face, thinning hair, and sad, droopy eyes. "Excuse me," he began, "I noticed the carriage outside and…" Stopping mid-sentence, a smile spread across his face. "You must be a Willoughby. I'd recognize those handsome features anywhere."

"You have the advantage of me, sir," I said.

"I beg your pardon. The name is Ben Johnson, a long-time friend of the Sommersbys."

"A friend of the Sommersbys? Why didn't you say so? Come in, come in, and have a seat."

Four sturdy wooden chairs had been set out in the main room. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, Leonard wiped off three, raising a cloud of dust in the process. With the task complete, we seated ourselves.

"I'm afraid I can't offer you anything," I said.

"Think nothing of it," said Ben. "Which Willoughby child are you, by the way?"

"Geoffrey, the youngest of three. This is my friend Leonard Matheson."

"Happy to make your acquaintance."

We shook hands all around.

"Mr. Johnson," I said, "what brings you here."

"A promise," he said.

"What sort of promise?"

"I promise to Emily."

Leonard and I started. "You know where she is?!"

"Certainly. She's in Barfleur."

"But why? Why Barfleur?"

"She fled fearing the orphanage, and wound up in an orphanage. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Is she still in the orphanage?"

"No, no, she has found a home."

"Is she really a child?" asked Leonard.

"In appearance only, though she can play the part when needed."

A knock came on the door. When I got up to answer it, I found a police officer standing on the stoop. He was tall and lanky. His face was long and thin, and his nose and chin were disproportionately large. Now, my grasp of the French language is sketchy at best, so what follows might not be 100% correct. However, you should get the general idea.

"Excuse me," said the officer, "I received a report of unusual activity…"

_Nosy neighbors,_ I was thinking.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant," said Ben, following close behind me.

Recognizing Ben, the officer spoke to him directly. "Monsieur, you have returned. Did you find success?"

"I did," said Ben, "and she is thriving."

"It is good to know."

"Sergeant," I said, "would you like to come in?"

"Thank you, I would."

Leonard wiped off the other chair, resulting in more flying dust and a series of coughs and sneezes. When the dust settled, the four of us seated ourselves.

"This is Geoffrey Willoughby," said Ben, gesturing with his hand, "and his friend, Leonard Matheson. Geoffrey is Madame Sommersby's grandson. He has come, I am assuming, to see to her estate."

"That is correct," I said, "though I do not know where to start."

"I believe we should start with Emily," said Leonard. "I am anxious to meet her."

"Will you journey to Barfleur?" asked Ben.

"It seems we must," I said.

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Certainly."

"Go by ship, if you can. It's a fortnight journey by coach, and quite cramped and tedious."

"I concur," said the sergeant. "A ship would be a much better option."

"And yet, knowing this," said Ben, "you put Emily on a coach."

"I had my reasons."

"Such as?"

"Monsieur Johnson, I have known many a sailor in my time. Though good fellows, mostly, I could not, in good conscience, trust them with her alone. The coach-driver is known to me, and I trust him. Besides, some fine ladies were traveling along with her."

"But why the rush? Emily was in a panic, I know, she told me, but there was no reason for you to be."

"She has an aunt in Barfleur. Is that not true?"

"Sergeant, how long have you known Emily?"

"All of my life."

"If she had an aunt, would that aunt be alive?"

"Possibly."

"You have known Emily all of your life?" asked Leonard

"Yes," answered the sergeant. "When I was a child, we were the best of friends."

"Do you have any theories regarding…"

"I do, but I keep them to myself."

"What is the talk among the townsfolk?" I asked.

"It depends on who you ask."

"What is the general consensus?"

"You are bound and determined to get it out of me."

"I'm only looking for a general idea. If I am to meet her…"

"Since you insist, I will give you the general consensus. It is this: Emily is a magical being, perhaps a fairy or a pixie."

"Preposterous!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, it is."

Though their advice was sound, Leonard and I had been on our way to Paris. After locking up the cottage, we continued on our journey by coach. Paris, at the time, was going through some major renovations. Buildings were torn down, and the streets were widened, in an attempt to clean up some of the more downtrodden areas. Of course, we only heard about these things second hand. Our little inn was located in a clean and well maintained section of town. The reason we traveled to Paris was the art, music,and opera, and we were not disappointed. After a captivating week, we journeyed to the lovely seaside town of Barfleur.

If you like boats and ships and all things nautical, as I do (when not seasick), you will like Barfleur. Upon our arrival, Leonard and I wandered a bit, taking in the sights, and chatting with folks here and there, as we proceeded to the café where we were to find Emily. A rumble of voices met us as we stepped inside. The place was full and lively. Waiting behind several groups, we perused a large menu which had been posted on the wall. Everything looked tasty. It was hard to decide what to order. When our turn came, a stocky fellow with curly black hair, and a bushy black mustache, led us to a table. He was cheerful, friendly and welcoming. An expressionless waiter, with a rather blasé attitude, took our order. Despite his seeming lack of motivation, the meal came posthaste, and was excellent. While we were enjoying the meal, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a little white bonnet, barely higher than the tables, bobbing and weaving its way through the crowd. When it reached the clearing directly in front of us, a little girl in a plain black dress and white apron appeared and disappeared. Rising from my seat, I followed, catching her up, and tapping her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle," I said, "might you be Emily Charbonneau?"

"Oui, Monsieur," she said, pirouetting gracefully. I found myself staring into the face of a child, smooth and fresh, without blemish or wrinkle, and still possessing what is commonly known as 'baby-fat' in her cheeks and under her tiny chin. Recognition showed in her pretty green eyes. Her jaw dropped in surprise. "Victor? What are you doing here? Is Ruthie with you?"

That settled it. There was no longer any room for doubt. If she mistook me for my father, she must have known him in his youth, for he had grown quite stout.

"I'm Geoffrey," I said. "My father and brother are the Victors."

A sweet smile brought out some cute dimples. "Geoffrey, of course. I remember your letters, and the lovely little paintings."

"Lovely little paintings, eh?" said Leonard, appearing behind me.

Not wishing to talk about certain childish paintings, I asked Emily to join us at our table. She consented willingly. Along the way, she spoke with the man with the curly black hair. He left and returned with a little seat crafted out of wood, placed it onto a chair, and gently lifted Emily into it.

"Jacques," said Emily to the man, "this is Geoffrey Willoughby and…"

"Leonard," said Leonard.

"And Leonard."

"A pleasure," said Jacques.

"Geoffrey is a cousin from…"

"Toronto," I said. "In Canada."

"So far from home," said Jacques.

"On holiday."

"Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you."

With other things to see to, he hurried off.

Leonard nudged me and said, smiling smugly, "What do you say now?"

"I say I'm astonished," I said.

"How are your parents?" asked Emily.

"Fine, fine."

"And Victor and Abigail?"

"Fine as well. Abby was just married. Did you know?"

"No, no, I have not received any news for some time."

"Yes, of course, we found some unopened letters in the cottage."

"I am sorry. I felt I must leave at the time."

"Don't worry," said Leonard. "We found you, and that's all that matters."

"How did you find me?"

I told her of our meeting with Ben Johnson and the sergeant. "Which brings us to the reason for our quest," I said. "What should we do with the cottage and all of the things inside?"

"Did the solicitor not see to that?" she asked.

"It was still the same as you left it."

"Except for the cobwebs," said Leonard.

"And the dust," I added.

"Let me think," said Emily. "I would hate for you to go out of your way."

"We don't mind."

"Have you spoken with the solicitor?"

"We did. He sent us to the cottage."

"I see. As far as I am concerned, you may keep what you like, and donate the rest to the orphanage, or some charity."

"When we return to London, I will let him know."

"Was there nothing you wanted?"

"Nothing for me, but I did pack up a few things for Mother."

"Good. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. There is one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Mother wanted me to ask you: Will you come back with us to Canada?"

Without hesitation, she answered, "No, no, I cannot. It is tempting, of course, but I will not leave Jacques."

"Why? Is he your husband?"

She narrowed her eyes at me. Her little face reddened just a touch. "Is that a joke?"

"Um…"

"I will have you know, Jacques' character is above reproach."

"I didn't mean…"

"He went out of his way to help me, without asking for anything in return."

"You really did it this time," said Leonard.

"But you're old enough to marry," I said, "aren't you?"

"You may have noticed," she said, "people tend to judge according to appearances."

"All the world's a stage," quoted Leonard, "and all the men and women merely players…"

Emily quoted the next line. "They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts."

Continuing on, they alternated lines until the recitation was complete. Leonard was on cloud nine, having discovered another devotee.

"You know Shakespeare?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "I have attended many performances."

"Performances?" asked Leonard. "In London?"

"Yes."

"We saw King Lear at Covent Garden."

"Was it not thrilling?"

Leonard sighed, "Words cannot express…"

Jacques pulled up a chair, surprising us. His jovial manner had disappeared. Grave concern showed on his face. "My dear," he asked, earnestly, "your family has found you?"

"Geoffrey is a third cousin," was her answer.

"A cousin is a cousin, more family than..."

"No, no, no, Jacques, you are my family."

"But I have no claim…"

"After all you have done for me?"

"What I have done is nothing compared to what you have done for me."

"Now you are being silly; but I love you for it." Emily turned and looked at me. "Do you see why I cannot leave him?"

"I do see," I said. "I will not press you any further, I promise."

"Ruthie will understand. She is a dear, dear lady."

"Yes, she is."

No one, I mean, no one ever called my mother Ruthie. My mind was completely boggled.

"Is there a theater in this city?" asked Leonard.

"Yes," said Emily, "but you will not find Shakespeare."

"No matter."

"There is a performance this weekend," said Jacques. "I read about it in the newspaper. Perhaps you will come with us, and be our honored guests."

"Will you be in town long?" asked Emily.

"Our schedule is open," was my answer.

Throwing the itinerary out the window, Leonard and I remained in Barfleur for a fortnight, thoroughly enchanted by our new found friends, and the lovely seaside town.


	13. Chapter 13

The Child Lives On

Chapter Thirteen

On a foggy London evening, a hackney cab slowed to a stop in front of a large brownstone building. A distinguished gentleman, highly esteemed in the world of business, stepped out. The doorman at the brownstone greeted him, taking his hat, coat, gloves and cane. The clubroom was empty, except for an old gray military man. Oak paneling, plush carpets, soft leather chairs and a cozy fire created the perfect refuge on a chilly night - or any other night, for that matter. The military man looked up when the gentleman entered. A smile crossed his weathered face. "Mr. Smythe," he said, "haven't seen you in a dog's age."

"Been in New York," said Mr. Smythe, relaxing in the adjacent seat. "On business."

The clubman brought in a decanter full of port and a glass, set them down on the table next to Mr. Smythe, and left as quietly as he came in.

"New York, you say?" said the military man. "An excellent place for business, so I've heard."

"It wasn't business only," said Mr. Smythe. "It was a humanitarian mission as well."

"What sort of humanitarian mission?"

"I could relay the story, if you like."

"Proceed."

"Very well. As you may already know, I vacation every summer in Barfleur."

"Barfleur? Have you something against Brighton?"

Mr. Smythe waved off the interruption with his hand. "Ten years ago I befriended a retired café owner. We played chess, swapped stories, walked the shores, fished, and so on."

"Idyllic."

"Yes. The man died earlier this year."

"Having lost many a friend myself, I can sympathize."

"He had a granddaughter, one Emily."

"Ah."

"When I arrived in Barfleur this summer, I found her alone with no one to turn to."

"Poor child. How old is she?"

"Hard to say. She's exactly the same now as when I met her ten years ago."

"When one reaches a certain age..."

"I mean, she's still a child."

"I'm not sure..."

"Jacques seemed to think she was a magical being, a fairy or pixie perhaps."

"A fantasy, surely."

"Normally, I would agree with you."

At this point, the conversation went off the rails. Fantasy creatures - fairies, pixies, leprechauns and the like - were discussed at length. When the two men exhausted the subject, and themselves, Mr. Smythe picked up where he left off.

"The child wished to leave Barfleur," he said. "I offered to escort her to New York."

"And why would this little French lass wish to journey to New York?" asked the military man.

"She has relatives in Toronto."

"But you were going to New York."

"I was only going as far as New York. An associate of mine is escorting her to Toronto at this very moment - or perhaps an associate of his. No matter. He assured me, on his honor, that she would arrive safely.

With glasses emptied and refilled, Mr. Smythe continued.

"We set sail from Plymouth on a schooner," he said.

"A schooner?" asked the military man.

"My usual mode of travel."

"You should have taken a steamship."

"Too crowded. Besides, when smuggling a small child…"

"Say no more."

"Of course." Mr. Smythe cleared his throat. "The journey did not begin well. We were one day out when a frightening event occurred. I had left Emily in the cabin with her knitting to stretch my legs on deck. When I returned, I found a sailor in the cabin. Emily had been stripped bare, her wrists tied behind her back, and a rag shoved into her mouth."

"My word!"

"Indeed. The sailor was in the process of removing his trousers. I beat him about the head with my walking stick until he was bloody and unconscious."

"As any man with a sense of decency would do."

"After that, I never left her side."

"That goes without saying. What of the man?"

"I don't know. The captain saw to it."

"He bloody well should have been hung!"

"I concur."

The military man was thoroughly shaken. Although he was a veteran, and had endured the horrors of war, the thought of violating a small child was abhorrent. It took more than one glass of port to lower his blood pressure.

"I apologize, my friend," said Mr. Smythe. "Perhaps I should have held my tongue."

"No, no," said the military man. "Carry on. We must face the evils of this world head on."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Did the child recover?"

"She was distressed, of course."

"Of course."

"And grateful."

"I should think so."

"Exceedingly so, I think."

"In what way?"

"To the point of exaggeration."

"How so?"

"It was perplexing..."

"What?"

"...but she insisted..."

"What?"

"...that I saved her life."

"Metaphorically?"

"Perhaps."

"Some girls…"

"I'm sure I don't know."

At this point, the conversation centered on the various perceived eccentricities of the fairer sex, which I'm sure you would find quite tedious.


	14. Chapter 14

The Child Lives On

Chapter Fourteen

She was introduced as Marie Antoinette, but was really Monsieur Cumberland's mother. Old and frail, and in a wheelchair, she greeted me with a friendly smile. I returned the smile and gave her my best curtsy. In an ornate sitting room, which smelled of lavender, we were attended by a slender teenage girl with bright red hair, wearing a modest black dress, white lace apron and white lace cap. Without even asking, she lifted me into a chair. "Mademoiselle," I said, "I do not want to seem ungrateful, but I am perfectly capable…"

"You don't need to be so formal, sweetheart," she said. "Just call me Lucy."

"Mademoiselle Lucy…"

"Is the tea ready, Lucy?" asked Madame Cumberland. She spoke in French, and refused to acknowledge any other language.

"Yes, Madame," answered Lucy.

While Lucy poured tea and served pastries, Madame Cumberland focused her watery eyes on me. "I do hope you will like it here," she said, lifting a porcelain cup to her lips with a trembling hand.

"It seems to be a nice place," was my response.

"From where have you come, my dear?"

"Barfleur."

"By the sea?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Lovely place. I remember it well. What brings you to Paris?"

_Paris? Does she think we're in Paris?_ "Employment," I said, keeping it simple.

"And your line of work?"

"I am an herbalist."

"What, my dear, is an herbalist?"

"An herbalist cultivates and dispenses herbs, taking a holistic approach toward the healing of mind and body."

"Big words for such a small child."

"Must be a genius," interjected Lucy.

"Oh no," I said. "It has taken years to master the craft."

The dumbfounded looks were nothing new to me. I had seen them often over the years. The subject was quickly changed. Madame Cumberland spoke of Versailles and her imaginary husband Louis-Auguste. The history was not new to me, having lived during those troubling times. Biting my tongue, I fought the urge to correct her.

A heavy-set woman, much older than Lucy, wearing the same type of outfit, many sizes larger, entered the room. "Your Majesty," she said, "it is time for your nap."

Madame Cumberland sighed, "Very well, Mary," then reached over and gently tapped my shoulder with a decorative fan. "Feel free to wander about the palace, my dear."

Was I supposed to call her majesty? The egalitarian in me was appalled. Madame would have to do.

While Lucy was clearing the dishes, I hopped off the chair and smoothed out my skirt. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle Lucy," I said, "does this… um… palace have a library?"

"Yes, it does, sweetheart," she said, "but, as far as I know, we don't have any children's books."

"No matter. I will read the novels."

"You read novels?"

"French novels mostly: Hugo, Dumas, Nodier, de Musset-Pathay and others. However, a friend from London introduced me to some of the more recent English and American authors, and I am anxious to read more."

Lucy walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a book, and brought it to me. "If you don't mind," she said, opening to a random page. "Read this."

It was a selection from 'Twice-Told Tales' by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Why Marie Antoinette would have this book in her possession, I do not know. As far as I was concerned, it just added to the incongruity of the whole situation. To humor Lucy, I read two paragraphs, clearly and succinctly.

"You really are amazing," she said. "I can't wait to tell Mother about you."

This gave me pause. The last thing I wanted, or needed, was notoriety.

Costumed people were milling about in the lounge. I stopped to introduce myself, unprepared for what I found. Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington were matching wits in a game of chess. Abraham Lincoln was standing tall and erect behind a lectern, giving a speech. Lord Byron, George Washington, King George III, and Benjamin Franklin were playing gin rummy at a corner table. _Oh dear,_ I thought. _What kind of place is this?_

Thomas Jefferson appeared beside me. I tugged on the hem of his coat. He looked down on me like I was a bug. "Excuse me, Monsieur," I said. "Is this a costume party?"

"What did you say, child?" he sniffed.

"Is this a costume party?"

"What, pray tell, is a costume party?"

"Never mind."

If he did not know, I was not going to tell him.

Upon entering the library, I felt I had died and gone to heaven. Row upon row of books met my gaze, in alphabetical order. I made a beeline for Dickens. Having heard good things about his work, I was eager to read him for myself.

A few pages into Bleak House, I gave up, unable to concentrate. The events which brought me to this place were jumbling up my mind, leaving little room for Dickens - or anything else for that matter. My adventure began with the death of Jacques, followed by heartache, tears and panic, followed by Monsieur Smythe's offer, a rash decision, and a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean - which, by the way, is very, very big. After a long, long voyage, our ship sailed into New York Harbor. When Manhattan and the pier came into view, I beheld more people than I had ever beheld in one place at one time, even in London. With the ship safely docked, we disembarked and weaved our way through the crowd to an awaiting carriage. I held onto Monsieur Smythe's hand as if my life depended on it - and I have no doubt it did. If I were to lose track of him… well… it was too horrible to contemplate. The carriage ride through Manhattan was nothing less than chaotic. Carriages, carts, horses and all manner of vehicles (some I had never seen before, and cannot begin to describe) came at us from all directions, narrowly avoiding collisions. Pedestrians dodged in and out and through traffic, risking their lives. And for what? Why were they in such a hurry? When we finally reached our destination, I was in such a state of confusion and anxiety, I could hardly function.

Monsieur Smythe left me with an associate, one Virgil Appleton and his family. By that time, my nerves were so frayed, I was unable to thank him properly. The Appleton's were friendly and accommodating. Suzanna, the ten year old daughter, shared her room with me. She was so sweet and charming, my doubts and fears fled for a time - only to return with a vengeance in the middle of the night.

Jacques Davignon was a friend, business partner, and the closest thing to a father I had known since Uncle Richard. I loved him as much as I had ever loved anyone. Like Clara forty years before, he drifted off in his sleep. Alone again, I was of two, or possibly three, minds concerning my next move. One thing was certain, I could not, and would not, stay in the cottage alone. Of my closest relatives, Goeffrey Willoughby was the only one to ever seek me out. I am not blaming the others. It is, after all, a long way from Toronto to Barfleur. In the end, I decided to find Goeffrey somehow. Was it the right choice? Only time would tell.

Monsieur Edward Cumberland, a stocky fellow with close-cropped hair and a large bushy mustache, came to fetch me the next day. His tailored suits and brusque manner proclaimed, "Man of business!" After bidding farewell to the Appletons, and thanking them for their kind hospitality, I went with him. On the train to Binghamton, New York, he broached the subject of his mother. "She won't be with us much longer," he said. "If you would visit with her for a short while, I would be most grateful."

While I was musing, a tall, bony man, with a large head and cavernous cheeks, entered the library and walked stiffly towards me. "Miss Emily Charbonneau?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"The doctor will see you now."

I suppose I could have run, but where to?

The man led me down the hall to an office and offered me a seat in front of a large desk. Bookshelves, photographs and diplomas covered the walls. A plaque on the desk read: Dr. Götz Grudenwaller. The man and Dr. Grudenwaller passed each other, going out and coming in. The doctor was short, thin and bald, with a monocle and a Van-dyke beard.

"Good morning, Miss Emily," he said, taking a seat behind his desk. "Do you know why you are here?"

"Where is here?" I asked.

"Sunnydale Home."

"A madhouse?"

"Certainly not!"

"I beg your pardon."

He cleared his throat. "Miss Emily, I repeat, do you know why you are here?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

He shook his head, all the while writing on his pad.

"I know, I know, I fell down a hole, and this is Wonderland." I clasped my hands together. "Oh, I cannot wait to meet the White Rabbit and the Queen of Hearts. Off with her head!" I shouted, causing him to jump. "Now I remember! The White Queen said, "I have believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast," or was it the Red Queen?"

"The White Queen," said the doctor.

"Thank you for clearing that up."

"Miss Emily, will you please answer the question?"

"What question?"

"Why are you here?"

"I have no idea."

"Why couldn't you have said that in the first place?"

"I just thought of it."

"Very well. I will tell you why you are here."

"Why did you not do that in the first place?"

"Touché."

I stared at the top of his bald head while he made a notation on his pad. What could he have possibly been writing? He set down his pen and looked at me.

"You are to be a companion to Mrs. Cumberland," he said, "otherwise known as Marie Antoinette."

"Why me?" I asked.

"You are French and unencumbered."

"Perhaps you should have asked me first."

"I was not aware you had not been asked."

I jumped to my feet. "This is kidnapping, Monsieur!"

"Is it? You are free to go, if you like."

"Where will I go?"

"It makes no difference to me."

I climbed back into the chair. "If you put it that way, I accept your generous offer. Will I be paid?"

"Room, board and pocket money."

"And all the books I can read?"

"Certainly, but you must be available whenever Marie Antoinette requires."

"I will do my best, Monsieur."

"I'm counting on it."

That night, I was installed in a small room next door to Madame Cumberland. She napped often, so I had plenty of free time. The administrators of Sunnydale were more than generous, providing fine quality yarn for my knitting, a plot for my garden and access to crafting and art classes. The maids, Lucy and Mary, were friendly and helpful, going out of their way to make my stay comfortable. As strange as it may seem, living in the madhouse was, as the Americans like to say, okay.

Mingling with the inmates, ahem, I mean residents, was both interesting and amusing. Here are a few examples:

When I spoke to Napoleon in the French language, he did not understand a word I said.

"But you are supposed to be French, Monsieur," I said. "You should speak in your native tongue."

"I have the accent," was his response.

He did have the accent, I will give him that.

When I addressed Mark Twain as Samuel Clemens, he looked at me like I had a hole in my head. "Monsieur," I said, "Samuel Clemens is your real name."

"You are mistaken, young lady," was his haughty response. "I am Mark Twain."

"Alright, Monsieur Twain, tell me about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. How did you…?"

"Who?"

"Who? What do you mean..."

"Who are those people?"

"Monsieur Twain, Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn are your most famous characters."

"Young lady, I believe you are mistaken."

"I think not. If you were really Mark Twain, you would know…"

"Hrumph! I have the mustache, the hair and the white suit. What else do I need?"

_What else does he need? Is this a madhouse or a theatre?_

On the flip side of the coin, I enjoyed some interesting conversations, regarding mathematics and philosophy, with René Descartes. He was someone who knew his source material. I was truly impressed.

A large imposing building of red-brick, with an expansive yard completely surrounded by a barb-wire fence, was situated across the way. I could see it from my window. Whenever I walked alongside the fence, which I had to do from time to time, I heard wailing, screaming and other strange and terrifying noises, sending chills up and down my spine.

One day, as I was walking by, a man on the inside jumped out from behind a bush and pressed himself up against the fence, Naturally, I was startled, and took a step back. "Mon Dieu!" I exclaimed. He was skinny, with pale and pasty skin. A shaggy mop of hair and a long black beard hid his face. And to make matters worse, he was completely naked. Being the first time I had ever seen a full-grown man sans clothes, I was both appalled and curious. He stretched out an arm through the chain-link fence and beckoned to me with his hand. "Little girl," he gasped. "Help me."

"Monsieur, what is it you want me to do?"

"Open the gate."

"I am sure it must be locked."

"Find the key."

"I cannot imagine where it might be."

"Please, little girl, you must help me."

"Are they treating you badly?"

"Unspeakable horrors."

"I will have a word with Dr. Grudenwaller."

"It will do no good. Just open the gate."

"But how?"

"Please! Please!" he begged. "Oh, please open the gate!"

While we were conversing, two big, burly men, wearing white coats and hats, crept up behind him, and covered him with a robe.

The man screamed, "Help me, little girl. Help me," as they led him away.

I called out, "Be gentle, Messieurs."

One of the men turned his head and winked.

Mary came running. She must have seen me from the window. For such a large woman, she was surprisingly quick. Falling on her knees, she enveloped me in her arms, squeezing me tightly against her ample bosom. "Sweetheart," she said, "are you alright? Did that man frighten you?"

"No, no," I said, "I was not frightened."

"What a brave little girl you are."

"Do you think so? Back home they called me 'le chat peureux'".

"Well, they wouldn't call you scaredy cat now, believe me."

"Perhaps they would call me 'le chat curieux''.

"Oh ho! Is that so? Be careful, missy. Curiosity killed the cat, remember?"

"I am glad I am not a cat."

"But weren't you scared? Tell Mary the truth."

"Well… to tell the truth, if that fence were not there, I would have peed in my petticoats."

Her chins jiggled merrily when she laughed.

After the incident, I had a talk with Dr. Grudenwaller. He assured me that the patients in the other building were treated with the utmost respect. The unspeakable horrors were only a product of the man's disturbed imagination. With no reason to doubt his veracity, I took him at his word.

Several months later, on a lovely autumn day, when the leaves were changing colors and falling from the trees, I was taking a stroll on the grounds. Residents and their families were out and about as well, picnicking, strolling, playing, reading, and so on. When I saw him, I hid behind a tree - not because he was frightening, but because he was running toward me, yelling, "Little girl, little girl, I've been looking all over for you."

When he came close, I circled the tree, keeping it between him and me. We went around and around, this way and that way. "Little girl," he said, while we were playing our little game of keep-away, "I only want to thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"For caring."

"Monsieur, I do not know what you are saying. I have never laid eyes on you before."

"Oh, but you have."

"When?"

"Over there by the fence, when I was trying to escape."

I stopped, dumbfounded. This tall, good-looking, well-dressed, well-groomed man could not possibly be that scrawny, shaggy madman. What could possibly account for the change?

"But I could not help you," I said.

"It was wrong of me to ask," he said. "I know that now."

"I do not understand. Why are you thanking me?"

"For caring."

"For caring?"

"When you called out, 'Be gentle', my heart was touched. I knew then that someone really cared."

"But the people here…"

"No, no, it's all so cold and clinical."

"Is it? I did not know."

"Will you sit with me for a while?"

With no reason not to, I acquiesced.

On a nearby bench, he described how drink had led him down a path to madness; and how, when he was cured, he had joined up with a local temperance organization to help fight what he called the plague.

"But in France," I said, "wine is a staple, and we have very little madness."

"Ah," he said dismissively, "how can a child know," then went on to describe, at length, his mission.

From what I could see, he had simply found a new madness, joining with busybodies who wish to dictate to others- for their own good, of course. But if you start outlawing and banning things, where will it end? Should the majority suffer because a few cannot control themselves? Of course, I sat meekly and quietly nodding my head. There was no stopping him.

At the first opportunity, I asked Dr. Grudenwaller about the young man.

"One of our finest success stories," he said, preening a little.

As I spelled out my concerns, he leaned back in his chair, stroked his beard, and gave my opinion due consideration. "It seems to me," he said, "you are nitpicking. When you have seen the light, it's only natural to want others to see it."

"Yes," I said. "I am all for education; but when you use the force of government…"

"Tut, tut, my dear, this is only a few religionists venting their spleen. It won't go very far."

Again, I took him at his word.

That short while, spoken of by Monsieur Cumberland, lasted fifteen years. The years were, for the most part, pleasant and enjoyable. Madame Cumberland was always kind to me. Apart from her one big delusion, she was really quite sane. I enjoyed gourmet meals, wore the finest clothing and lived a life of ease. But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

Madame Cumberland declined steadily. It was hard to watch someone slowly fading away. Near the end, she became disoriented, often forgetting who I was. I remained by her side, regardless. When her breath left her, I cried.


	15. Chapter 15

The Child Lives On

Chapter Fifteen

The child was staring me out of countenance. I've never known what to do with children. Even when I was a child, I didn't know. I did know, however, I was supposed to be making _her_ uncomfortable.

It was late in the evening, in the sitting room of a large opulent mansion, ornately furnished, with more space than could possibly be necessary. The aroma of fragrant plants filled the room, a pleasant change from the acrid smell of blood in the study. The child sat opposite me in a well-padded chair - legs dangling, hands on lap, wearing a pretty pink dress adorned with lace. Auburn curls framed a little round face with chubby cheeks and bright green eyes. Sergeant Peterson sat off to the side taking notes. I carried a notepad and pencil as well, just for show.

I cleared my throat. "Miss…"

"Emily," she said.

"Miss Emily, you found the body?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Did you scream and get hysterical?"

She glared at me. "Is that your usual line of inquiry?"

As a matter of fact, it was my usual line of inquiry. I like to keep my suspects off balance. "What did you do when you found the body?"

"I summoned help and had a look around."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you look around?"

"Curiosity. I have never seen a murder victim before."

"Murder? How do you know it was murder?"

"Maybe it was that huge bloodstain on the front of his shirt."

"Funny you should notice that, being hysterical and all."

"Monsieur, is this a serious investigation?"

"It is, Miss Emily. Believe me, it is." I was beginning to warm to the child. She would brook no nonsense. "Miss Emily," I continued, "what was your relationship with the victim?"

"Monsieur Cumberland was my benefactor."

"Benefactor?"

"I am an orphan."

"Are we importing orphans from France? Don't we have enough of our own?"

"How do you know I am from France?"

"You have an accent."

"I do not."

Not wishing to argue, I refocused. "About your benefactor. Are you in his will? Do you know?"

"In his will?" she said, somewhat perplexed. "I do not think so. If I do inherit anything, it will have been put in trust, which means I will never see it."

"Surely the executors…"

"There are mitigating circumstances I do not wish to discuss."

"Miss Emily, you have an impressive vocabulary for such a small child."

"Monsieur, do you always complement with the back of your hand?"

"Extraordinary. What do you say, Peterson?"

"I'd say she has you pegged, Inspector," said the sergeant.

"Who asked you?"

The sergeant was grinning.

This interview was getting out of hand. Again, I refocused. "Miss Emily," I said, "what did you observe when you, as you say, looked around?"

"Do you really want to know?" she asked.

"Of course."

"The ashtray was full of cigarette butts, two different brands."

"And what does that signify?"

"I do not know. I merely observed it."

"Go on."

"There were spent cartridges on the floor."

"Anything else?"

"A fire in the fireplace with bits of burnt paper scattered about. The window was open. Outside the window were footprints, big footprints. Do not worry, Inspector, I did not touch the windowsill. I went outside to inspect the footprints, being careful to not walk over them."

"I should have you on the force, Miss Emily. My men usually blunder through everything. Eh, Peterson?"

The sergeant rolled his eyes. I chuckled inwardly. Turnabout is fair play.

"From that window to the outer wall measures one hundred yards, through hedges," continued the child. "You will find footprints, broken branches and cloth fibers."

"You saw all that at night?"

"I have a torch."

"Weren't you afraid the murderer might still be about?"

"Why would he be?"

"I…"

"He obviously went over the wall."

"Are you sure?"

"Now that you mention it, the murderer might still be in the house, and the footprints, fibers and such red herrings."

"You are quite the clever girl."

She blushed and looked down at her hands. Complements were her Achilles' heel.

"Let's get down to brass tacks," I said. "Where were you this evening?"

"In this room, reading," she said.

"What were you reading?"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Did you figure it out?"

"Did I figure what out?"

"The solution."

"I have not finished."

"It's quite good. Don't worry, I won't spoil it for you."

"Thank you."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes. Blanche was already in bed."

"When did you go into the study?"

"After I heard gunshots."

"How did you know they were gunshots?"

"I was startled by several loud bangs, and did not know what they were until I saw Monsieur Cumberland lying on the floor."

"Did you go directly to the study?"

"Yes."

"Did you see anyone besides the victim?"

"No."

"No one at all?"

"No one."

"I see. Is there something you would like to add, Sergeant?"

"No, Inspector," said the sergeant.

"Miss Emily, is there anything else you wish to tell me?"

"No, Monsieur. That is all I know."

"Thank you for your time. On your way out, please ask the butler to step this way."

During the course of the investigation, I saw the child from time to time around the estate. I would have liked to speak with her again, but lacked opportunity. In my line of work, intelligent conversation is scarce. However, you can't just invite a little girl over for lunch. It just isn't done.

The case was ridiculously simple. The culprit (a partner in the victim's company) left fingerprints all over the desk, the windowsill and the revolver which was found in a ditch across the street. My participation in the matter was completely unnecessary. Where _are_ all the clever criminals? Obviously not in Binghamton.


	16. Chapter 16

The Child Lives On

Chapter Sixteen

Blessed with a statuesque body and perfect cheek-bones, I use these fine attributes to my advantage. It's much easier than working.

He was thirty years older, but still quite fit and handsome. I met him when his daughter and I were modeling in New York City. He lavished me with gifts, and took me on extravagant vacations, winning me over with his money. We married a week after his divorce was final. In the marriage bed, he was tender and considerate. Nine months after the honeymoon, I gave birth to Stephanie.

For five years, we were a happy little family, doing fun happy little family things together. When Stephanie turned five, however, I began to notice something strange about his behavior. He would throw parties for our daughter, inviting little girls from all over town (never any boys), and dressed up like a clown so he could hug and kiss and touch them. When I asked him about it, he claimed it was just part of the act. What did I know? Maybe it was.

Then it got a little stranger. He brought home a little girl - I mean, the cutest little girl you've ever seen (besides Stephanie), with auburn curls, bright green eyes, and the chubbiest little dimpled cheeks you just want to pinch.

"This is Emily," he said. "She's a genius."

"No, Monsieur," said Emily. "I am not a genius."

"And modest too."

"Where did you find this little genius?" I asked.

"Blanche Cumberland was cleaning house."

"You bought her?"

"Of course not. I hired her."

"To do what?"

"Tutor Steph."

"I suppose that's alright. What did Blanche have to say about it?"

"Blanche? Well… she told me some crazy story about her mother-in-law and the madhouse."

"And what did that have to do with the child?"

"That's just it. I don't know."

"Where are her parents?"

"She doesn't have any parents."

"My parents are dead," said Emily.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I never knew them."

"Awwwww…"

"You see?" said my husband. "We'll be helping her out, and giving Steph a head start."

I don't know how much he paid her, but I do know that room and board were included. In fact, he put her in the bedroom next to ours.

Emily was indeed intelligent, amazingly so, and Stephanie was learning. So far so good. However, when my husband began to sit in on the lessons my suspicions were aroused. So I spied on him, and let me tell you, I didn't like what I saw. He would sit close to Emily, speaking to her softly, while touching her shoulder or knee - and this in front of his daughter. To her credit, Emily would object, but that didn't stop him - no indeed, it did not. In fact, it seemed to spur him on. "Monsieur," I heard her say many times, "you must not take liberties."

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he would say.

"Your behaviour is highly inappropriate."

"I can fire you, you know."

"Then do it. I am only here for Mademoiselle Stephanie."

He neither fired her, nor stopped his inappropriate behavior. When I confronted him, he lied. If I was tossed over for a younger and prettier woman, I would have understood (and received a nice settlement), but to be tossed over for a child was humiliating.

From that day on, I prepared for the worst. My father. an avid hunter, taught me from a young age how to handle a gun. I told him I was afraid of intruders, and he gave me a shotgun, which I kept under the bed. My husband paid no attention to housekeeping, and was unlikely to find it there.

Whenever we retired for the night, I pretended to fall asleep, but wouldn't actually sleep until I was sure he was asleep - you can't fake that kind of snoring. In the meantime, I enlisted the help of a faithful butler and maid. Then I waited. It turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Late one moonless night, I felt him leave the bed. When the door closed, I arose and followed. Shotgun in hand, I roused my compatriots, turned off the lights in the hallway and proceeded to Emily's door, opening it a crack. "Monsieur," I heard her say, "what are you doing? You must leave at once."

"You want this as much as I do," he said. "You've been making eyes at me."

"I certainly have not! Do not touch me."

"Mmmm, you smell so nice."

"Take your hands off of me."

"Mmmm, so soft and firm."

"Monsieur, do not touch me."

"Doesn't it feel good?"

"No, it does not."

"It feels good to me."

"Monsieur, you must stop."

"But I don't want to stop."

"No, no, no, do not make me..."

"You did this to me. It's your responsibility."

I was sick to my stomach. And yet, my conscience wouldn't let me escape my own guilt. I had married this monster for his money. The butler and maid were whispering behind me. I shushed them.

Emily was becoming hysterical. "Monsieur, do not do this," she cried. "You will regret it."

My husband was undeterred. "I don't think so," he said.

"Believe me, you will."

"You will like it, my dear. I know you will. Don't fight it. Just relax."

"No! No! No! I will not!"

"Settle down. Stop fighting me."

"I will not!"

"Then you leave me no choice."

"Stop, Monsieur!" she screamed. "I do not want to die!"

Pushing open the door, I turned on the lights, leveled the shotgun at his head, and cocked. "Do you recognize that sound?" I asked. He turned over and stared at me, completely naked. Emily's nightgown was torn, exposing her tiny flat chest.

"Sweetheart," I said, "you'd better run."

She was out the door in a flash.

"Now, my dear," I said to my husband, "shall we negotiate?"


	17. Chapter 17

The Child Lives On

Chapter Seventeen

Ogden Brockmeyer's my name, fine clothing's my game. A confirmed bachelor, I'm set in my ways, which makes the following all the more extraordinary.

On a day like any other day, a little girl walked into my store. "Sir," she said, "will you buy this scarf?"

Taking the scarf from her hand, I looked it over. It was of surprisingly fine quality.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Cassandra."

"Did you knit this?"

"Yes, sir. I did."

"Did you really?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll give you ten dollars for it."

"Ten dollars?"

"It's a fair price, I believe."

"I'll say it is."

She ran out of the shop with ten dollars. I sold the scarf for twenty.

The next day, she brought in another, and we made the same deal. The third day, I gave her a job. However, it didn't take long to see that she didn't know a stitch from a hole in the ground.

"You didn't really knit these scarves, did you?" I asked.

"No, sir." she said.

"Who did?"

"I'm not telling."

She ran out of the shop, and that was the last I saw of her.

Somebody knitted those beautiful scarves, and I was going to find out who it was. Cassandra, or whatever her name was, told me, at some point, I don't remember when, that she was living in the orphanage, so that's where I went. The matron in charge couldn't give me a definitive answer. "Many of our girls knit," she said.

"Like this?" I asked, holding up the scarf that I brought with me.

"I really couldn't say."

"Is there any way to find out?"

"Come with me."

The building was sturdy and solid, and painted in bland institutional colors without adornments. Large communal dorms separated the boys from the girls. A recreational area was located in the rear. In one of the rooms, a dozen or so girls were knitting. When the matron and I entered, I held up the scarf. "Did one of you girls knit this?" I asked.

A cacophony of voices shouted, "I did! I did!"

"If you don't mind, I will examine your work."

One by one, I examined the knitting, and saw only amateur and inferior workmanship, until I came upon the smallest and quietest girl in the room. I knew at a glance I had found her. "Did you knit this?" I asked, holding up the scarf.

"Oui, Monsieur," she said.

"She's lying!" cried the other girls.

"Hush!" said the matron, finally asserting some authority.

"Will you come with me?" I said to the girl. "I would like to speak with you alone."

She gathered up her knitting and hopped out of her chair. When I reached out to take her hand, she shied away from me.

"She won't let a man touch her," said the matron.

"Timid?" I asked.

"More than that, I think.

As we left the room, cries of, "She's lying! Don't listen to her!" followed us down the hall.

We seated ourselves in the matron's office. Before climbing into her chair, the child pushed it as far away from me as possible. "Emily," said the matron, "this is Mr. Brockmeyer."

"A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Brockmeyer," said Emily.

"Mr. Brockmeyer is the owner of Brockmeyer's Fine Clothing."

"Owner and manager," I said.

"You wish to speak with me?" asked Emily.

"Yes, I do, my dear. I would like you to come work for me."

"Work for you?"

"Your scarves are of very fine quality."

"Merci."

"Can you knit anything else?"

"Oui, of course. I can knit whatever you desire."

"Wonderful."

"Will I be paid?"

"Of course."

"What is the rate?"

Impressed by her forthrightness, I laid out my plan.

She raised her eyebrows. "A very fine offer, Monsieur."

"Will you take it?"

"Oui, Monsieur, I will."

"Wonderful. Now I have another offer."

This is when a snap decision changed my life forever. Having been a smaller than average child, I was familiar with bullying. The scene in the knitting room had really stuck in my craw.

"Another offer?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I would like to offer you a home."

"Where?"

"In my home, of course."

"Are you married, Monsieur?"

"No."

"Would it be safe and proper for me to reside with you?"

Rubbing my chin, I thought it over carefully. "You bring up a very fine point, my dear, a very fine point indeed. I tell you what, I'll hire a governess to watch over you. What do you say?"

"This governess, will she carry a pistol?"

_A pistol?_ "I hardly think that would be necessary."

"You never know, Monsieur."

_What is she afraid of?_ "My dear, I will do everything in my power to insure your protection."

"Madame," she said to the matron, "do you know this man?"

"Only by reputation," said the matron, "but I assure you, we won't hand you over to just anybody. Enquiries will be made. Inspections will be done."

And so, the process began. I didn't take her home that day, which was just as well; a room had to be prepared and a governess hired. I did, however, take her to my place of business, and introduced her to the tailors, seamstresses and clerks, and showed-off the workshop, warehouse and store. The matron accompanied us.

Out in front of the orphanage, as we approached my brand new Seldon Runabout, Emily stopped and stared. "Monsieur," she said, "I have never ridden in a horseless carriage."

"Nor I," said the matron.

"Is it safe?"

"Don't worry," I said. "It's pulled, or in this case, pushed, by a different kind of horse."

"A different kind of horse?"

"A mechanical horse."

"Where are its legs?"

"It has wheels instead of legs, and an engine, frame and drive-train instead of organs, bones and muscles."

"What will they think of next?"

While the matron helped Emily into the motor-car, and climbed in after her, I cranked the engine. When the engine turned over, they covered their ears. "You'll get used to the noise," I said, as I took my seat behind the wheel.

"Eh?" they said at the same time.

Though we were only traveling about twenty miles an hour through the city, Emily's bright green eyes sparkled with excitement. Turning to me, she shouted, "This is really quite exhilarating, Monsieur. The horses are frisky today."

"Yes," I said with a laugh. "The horses are frisky today."

It seemed to me, we were establishing a rapport.

Little did I know what changes were in store when I brought the child into my home. Only my study and bedroom were spared the onslaught of flowers, lace and what not, which spread throughout the house like wildfire. To be fair, permission was requested and granted. A French accent, sparkling green eyes, and a sweet dimpled smile are potent weapons when wielded by an adorable little girl with auburn curls.

The redecorated house was only the beginning. Imagine my surprise when I discovered fresh fruits and vegetables on the dinner table. Fruits and vegetables? My word! Meat and potatoes was good enough for my father and was certainly good enough for me. And yet, Emily just had to say, "Will you not have a small portion of spinach with your steak, Monsieur Ogden?" and to please her, I would nibble a few nasty leaves. Since then, she has coaxed more vegetables into me than I ever thought possible. Again, it would take a stronger man than I to withstand the power of those dimples.

With thoughts of enriching her education, I bought a 'McGuffey Reader', and offered to read it to her. She went to the bookshelf, pulled out 'The Three Musketeers' and brought it to me. "Monsieur Ogden," she said, "would you read this instead?"

"My dear," I said, "this is far too advanced."

"Is it? I was certain it would be easy for you."

"No, my dear. I meant it was too advanced for you."

"But I have already read this book in its original language."

Incredulous, I asked her to read it aloud to me, which she did in a most lively and entertaining way. Needless to say, I was astonished. _She must be a prodigy_, I was thinking.

Money can't buy affection, I know, but it can help to show that you care. With that in mind, I purchased a Yorkshire terrier and a special hand-made dolly, which Emily named Jacques and Clara respectively. When I saw how much she appreciated the gifts, I was pleased. She never went anywhere without them. In the shop, Jacques would sit at her feet, content to be near his mistress. He became a great favorite with the staff, and didn't lack for pats on the head and treats. The dolly was given a special place on her work-table, and was treated with the utmost care and respect. More than once, when she didn't know I was listening, she'd clutch the dolly to her chest and whisper, with tears in her eyes, "Clara, Clara, I miss you most of all."

Which leads us to another concern:

If she had one fault, it was this: She had a hard time distinguishing between fantasy and reality. Many an evening, she would tell tall-tales of witch hunts, angry mobs, aristocrats in London, peasants in France, ocean voyages, madhouses, murder mysteries, and the like, as if she were a witness to them all. Concerned, I consulted Margie, her governess.

"Mr. B.," said Margie, "it's not unusual for a child to have a wild imagination."

"Perhaps it's my upbringing," I said. "You see, my father discouraged that sort of thing."

"And you were taught to be practical, weren't you?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"Of course not, and she will learn as she grows. Have a little patience, Mr. B. She's still a child."

My patience was tested on another front as well. Though we were on friendly terms, Emily kept her distance at all times. Whenever I came too close, she would scamper away like a scared little rabbit, hiding behind Margie's skirts. It was giving me a complex. I wondered, Am I really that scary? This was a problem which needed to be addressed. In my opinion, to have a happy home, mutual trust was necessary. Again, I consulted Margie.

"Give her time, Mr. B.," she said. "She has suffered something traumatic in her past."

"At the orphanage?" I asked.

"I don't think so. She's not afraid of women or children."

"Just men."

"Yes, just men."

"Has she told you anything at all?"

"No, she hasn't. I've asked her, but she refuses to even acknowledge its existence. Whatever it is, she's locked it up and thrown away the key."

"Do you have any suggestions?"

"Give her time, that's all."

"Very well. I'll give her all the time she needs."

So I waited, and bit my tongue. The situation continued for close to a year, and my concern only grew. Then one day, when least expected, like a miracle, it happened. Emily, Margie and I were shopping downtown, as we often did. Normally, Emily would walk on the other side of Margie; but this time, while we were waiting to cross the main thoroughfare, Emily stepped between us and slipped her tiny hand into mine. Startled, I looked down at her. She was gazing off into the distance, like nothing unusual had happened. Margie was grinning ear to ear. A happy feeling came over me, and I couldn't help but laugh.

"What?" said Emily, looking from one of us to the other. "Did something happen?"

"My dear," I said, "let's celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"Life, my dear. Let's celebrate life."

And we immediately set out for the ice cream shop.

So if you know a bachelor set in his ways, don't think him a lost cause. He might just be waiting for a reason to change.


	18. Chapter 18

The Child Lives On

Chapter Eighteen

Graduating from high school with no prospects for marriage, while most in my class had already paired up, I enrolled in college with the idea that I might find an eligible young man. Two years later, I returned home with an education degree, and still no prospects for marriage. Resigned to my lonely fate, I applied for teaching positions all over Broome County. Months went by with no response. My sense of self-worth was at an all time low. Desperate, I began to look for any old job around Binghamton. Every morning, with a cup of coffee in hand, and little hope in my heart, I combed over the slim-pickings in the want-ads. Mom often joined me in the search.

"You could do this," she said one morning.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Governess."

"Governess? You've got to be kidding."

"Why?"

"That's just what I need, another little brat like Zoe."

My little sister Zoe picked that moment to step into the kitchen. Ten years my junior, she's a real handful, believe me. "Hey!" she said. "Who're you callin' a brat?"

"I'm calling you a brat, brat."

Sliding into the chair next to me, she said, "If you hadn't noticed, Margie-wargie, I'm not a kid anymore."

"Nah, you're still a kid."

"Nah ah."

"Yah ah."

"Nah ah."

"Yah ah."

"Would you two stop bickering?" cried Mom, rolling her eyes.

"Margie started it," said Zoe.

"Hush!"

Putting this childishness behind us, for the moment, we returned to the task at hand.

"What are you looking at?" asked Zoe.

"A job in the paper," was my answer.

"What kind of job?"

"Governess."

"You want it?"

"Not really."

"Margie," said Mom, "don't you want to be a teacher?"

"I suppose so. What other options…?"

"If you were a teacher, you'd have to deal with a room full of kids. If you can't handle one…"

"Yeah," said Zoe, "if you can't handle one…"

"Alright, alright," I said. "What does the ad say?"

"Let me see," said Mom, slipping on her reading glasses. "Apply at Brockmeyer's Fine Clothing."

"I thought you said they were looking for a governess."

"They are."

"Then why would I apply at a clothing store?"

"There's only one way to find out."

Later that morning, I found myself standing on the sidewalk in front of Brockmeyer's Fine Clothing. The store is located in a large three story brick building in the middle of downtown Binghamton. Behind the front windows, mannequins, posing in elegant attire, were displayed in various sophisticated settings. Taking a deep breath, and giving myself a pep-talk, I stepped through the front door. The interior was beautifully furnished, but practically devoid of clothing. Apparently, you have to ask for what you want. A well-groomed young man, in dress pants, dress shirt, suspenders and bow tie, asked, "May I help you, Miss?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm here about the job in the paper."

"Which job?"

"Governess."

"Wait right here."

Picking up a phone behind the counter, he spoke a few words, incoherent to me, and hung up. "Miss," he said, "Mr. Brockmeyer will be right with you." Having done his duty, he turned his attention to the gentleman who had come in behind me.

Having a look around, I noted the lack of women. _I'm surprised_, I thought._ I was expecting more applicants._ Not long after, a dapper man of middling height, with a pencil thin mustache and wire-rimmed spectacles, came down some steps and walked briskly toward me. "Good morning, Miss," he said. "You are here about the governess job?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"And your name?"

"Margery Steadman."

"Come this way, Miss Steadman."

I followed him up the steps to the second floor. Tailors and seamstresses, hard at work, barely noticed us as we weaved our way around work-tables and desks. The sounds of scissors, sewing machines and chatter filled the air. A small office, sparsely furnished, was located in the back of the room. Mr. B. offered me a seat in a sturdy wooden chair, then sat behind a plain wooden desk. "Miss Steadman," he said, getting right to the point, "do you have any experience as a governess?"

"No, sir," I said. "Fresh out of college, I'm afraid."

"Any experience at all with children?"

"Only babysitting."

"Would this be your first full-time job?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any references?"

Retrieving some letters of recommendation from my purse, I held them out to him. He took them from my hand, and read them over carefully. "Very well," he said. "I'm willing to give you a chance. When can you start?"

"Right this minute," I said.

"Just what I wanted to hear." Jumping to his feet, he hurried to the door, and beckoned to me with his hand. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"To the orphanage."

"The orphanage?"

"I'll explain on the way."

While driving across town in his motor-car, Mr. B. told me about a little orphan girl who could knit like nobody's business. By the time he had finished his glowing report, I was anxious to meet her. "Treat her like a princess," he said. "Make sure she has the best of everything. You'll be given an expense account, of course."

_All this because she can knit?_ is what I was thinking. What I said was, "Yes, sir."

The matron in charge of the orphanage looked me over carefully and asked several probing questions while someone was fetching the child. I couldn't help thinking, _Am I supposed to gain her approval as well?_

An elderly lady, in plain dress, with iron gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, entered the matron's office. "Fran," said the matron, "did you find Emily?"

"Right behind me," said Fran.

A cute little round face, framed by auburn curls, peeked out from behind Fran's skirts.

"Emily, my dear," said the matron, "Mr. Brockmeyer has brought your governess."

"Bonjour, Monsieur Brockmeyer," said Emily. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Governess." Her cute little voice matched her cute little face perfectly.

"Bonjour, Emily," I said, rising from my seat and holding out my hand. "Will you come to me?"

The child skirted the wall, all the way around behind the matron's desk, in order to get to me. I don't know if she thought Mr. B. was going to attack her or what, but the fear was real.

"Come now, Emily," said the matron. "Mr. Brockmeyer is not going to bite you."

"I would not care if he bit me," murmured Emily.

Bizarre, in my opinion, but nothing more was said on the matter. She overcame her fear of Mr. B. eventually, but that's another story.

"Thank you, Fran," said the matron. "You may go."

"Goodbye, Emily," said Fran, with a little wave. "I hope you find happiness in your new home."

"Merci, Madame Fran," said Emily. "Au revoir"

"Shall we go?" asked Mr. Brockmeyer.

"Come, Emily," I said.

"Oui, Mademoiselle," she said, holding tightly to my hand.

"And please call me Margie."

"As you wish."

"And call me Ogden," said Mr. B.

"Very well, Monsieur Ogden."

Bidding farewell to the matron, we went on our way.

And so, a new chapter in my life began.

It didn't take long to discover what the fuss was all about. Emily's skill with the knitting needles is beyond compare. I've heard of prodigies in art and music, but knitting? How did she learn it at such a young age? Did it come naturally? In the end, some things are just inexplicable.

One day, Mr. B. confided in me. "Fashion is a cutthroat business," he said.

"I never would have imagined," was my response.

"Lost some of my best tailors and seamstresses to the competition. Don't want to lose Emily."

"I wouldn't worry if I were you. She doesn't seem to be the greedy type at all. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"You never know. Some smooth talker…"

"That's why you hired me, isn't it?"

"You're right, of course. I'll leave it to you."

"Thank you, Mr. B. I won't let you down." _I hope._

Mr. B's home is a large Victorian, with gables, towers and a white picket fence encompassing an entire acre, or maybe two. It's located within walking distance of downtown and the store. Emily and I were installed on the second floor, with carte blanche regarding furnishings and decor. Sensible and practical to a fault, Emily picked out basic run-of-the-mill items. My orders were to treat her like a princess, and, by golly, I was going to do it, whether she liked it or not. It took some haggling, but we finally compromised on some quality furniture at a modest price. For such a sweet child, she can be pretty darn stubborn.

When all is said and done, it's not the luxurious home, the fine meals, and the fun entertainments (such as these new-fangled moving-pictures) that make this such a great job, but the friendship which has developed between me and my charge. Emily is the quietest, most polite, and most mature child I have ever met. In my limited experience, I never imagined such a child could possibly exist.

Not long after the events previously described, I took Emily and Jacques (her Yorkshire terrier) to the family home to meet Mom and Zoe. Dad was at the office. Mom prepared a nice lunch. After lunch, we gathered in the living room. When Emily left to use the restroom, Mom said, "What a darling child, so sweet and polite," and Zoe said, "Ugh! What a prissy little goodie-goodie."

"Must be a joy to watch," said Mom.

"Indeed she is," I said

"Is that all you do? Watch?" said Zoe. "Must be boring as all get out."

"It's not all I do. I'm her teacher as well."

"What do you teach her? Mary had a little lamb?"

"I'll have you know, she reads at a college level, in two languages, no less."

"Impressive," said Mom.

"Would be a teacher's pet at my school," muttered Zoe. "All the kids would hate her."

"Do you attend a school for delinquents?" I asked.

"Okay, maybe not all the kids. We have a few goodie-goodies."

"You act like it's a bad thing to be smart and get good grades."

"There's nothing wrong with getting good grades, but they don't have to be so stuck-up."

At that moment, Emily returned to the room. "What is stuck-up?" she asked, as she climbed onto the couch next to me. Jacques jumped onto her lap and licked her face. She hugged him and murmured, "Qui est un bon chien?"

"I thought you said she was smart," said Zoe. "She doesn't even know what stuck-up means."

"You don't have to know slang to be smart," I said.

"Ta sœur ne m'aime pas?" asked Emily.

I answered, "Elle est contraire."

"Is that some kind of secret code?" asked Zoe.

"It's French," I said.

"Why don't you speak American?"

"You mean English."

"I mean what I mean."

Some bickering ensued which need not be repeated. When the dust settled, Mom asked Emily, "Do you do anything besides knit?" We had been talking about knitting over lunch, which had bored Zoe to no end.

"I enjoy gardening," said Emily, "and hope to plant a garden in the spring."

"Oh, I love fresh tomatoes."

"With fresh red-leaf lettuce, kale, spinach, and a light vinaigrette. Mmmm, tres bon!"

"Ew," said Zoe, making a face. "Gross!"

Emily looked up at me, her bright green eyes full of questions. "What is gross?"

"It means she doesn't like it," was my answer.

"Your sister, she does not like tomatoes?"

"The only way she'll eat tomatoes is on spaghetti."

"Ah, oui, we often had spaghetti at the orphanage, with little balls of ground meat."

"You didn't like it?"

"I eat because I am hungry, but I prefer fresh vegetables and fruit."

"What a weirdo," said Zoe.

"Zoe," said Mom, "be nice."

"But she is."

"What is a weirdo?" asked Emily.

"A strange or unusual person," I said.

"Ah, oui, it is true, I am a weirdo."

"You're not a weirdo, honey," said Mom. "You're a breath of fresh air. Zoe could learn a thing or two from you."

"Merci, Madame Steadman."

"No need to be so formal, honey. Call me Harriet."

"Mom," whined Zoe, "you don't really expect me to learn anything from a five year old, do you?"

"She's older than five, isn't she?" Speaking directly to Emily, she asked, " How old are you, sweetheart?"

"One hundred thirty five," said Emily, with the straightest of straight faces.

"Ha, ha, ha, how cute."

"We don't know how old she is," I said. "Her birth records have not been found."

"Maybe she really is a hundred and thirty-five," said Zoe.

"Oh, Zoe," said Mom, rolling her eyes. "Sometimes…"

The following spring, Emily planted her garden. Mom got her fresh tomatoes, which she promptly cooked into spaghetti sauce, which, as I see it, defeated the purpose. At first, I assumed the garden was going to be a little plot with a few little plants. Much to my surprise, it grew and grew until it covered a quarter of the back yard and overflowed with all manner of vegetables and herbs. We harvested so much, we couldn't eat it all, and had to set up a table at the local farmer's market. It's not that we needed the money, it was just something to do. If Emily isn't busy, she's not happy.

I've been observing Emily for over a year now, and can't help but wonder if she's altogether human. Her amazing knitting skills, her greenest of green thumbs, her perfect manners, her excessive cleanliness and neatness, her vast knowledge of herbs, her ability to read and comprehend at a college level in both English and French, are just not normal for a child of eight, or whatever her age. She doesn't stand out in a crowd, but if you take a closer look… well… she's appears… dare I say… magical?


	19. Chapter 19

The Child Lives On

Chapter Nineteen

The year was nineteen hundred twenty one. Just as autumn was setting in, and the leaves were beginning to change, we threw a dinner party in our home. The weather was pleasant, so the caterers set up tables on the patio. Emily's garden was at the height of its magnificence, rendering additional ornamentation unnecessary - other than candles and elegant table settings. Guests included friends, clients and investors. Ginger ale, tea and coffee were served in lieu of cocktails, which had been outlawed the year before. An elderly, rather heavy-set woman with dark hair and dark eyes approached me as we were mingling before dinner. She introduced herself as Blanche Cumberland.

"It's lovely to see Emily again," she said.

"You know her?" I asked.

"Oh yes. My late-husband brought her over from France."

"Oh?"

"HIs mother was a resident at Sunnydale at the time."

"The madhouse?"

"She was only mildly afflicted, I assure you. Did you know there were two separate sections?"

"I'm really not familiar…"

"It matters not. She was brought over from France to be her companion."

"Why?"

"She thought she was Marie Antionette."

"Who thought she was Marie Antionette?"

"My mother-in-law."

"There are worse things, I suppose. What does this have to do with Emily?"

"Emily is French."

"That much I know."

"And she was such a wonderful little companion too. My mother-in-law adored her."

"Not hard to believe."

"It isn't, is it? She's just so bright and charming."

"When was this?"

"Oh, I'd say around '95 or '96."

I just about choked on an hors d'oeuvre.

This conversation dogged me all night long, even affecting my dreams. The next morning, as Emily and her governess (Margie) were on their way to breakfast, I stopped them and asked them to join me in the study. Margie and I seated ourselves in comfortable leather chairs. At my request, Emily stood next to me. "Show me your hands, please," I said. She held them out to me. I examined them closely. "Soft and warm, without spot or blemish," I murmured, "and so tiny. A child's hands to be sure." Reaching out, I gently touched a chubby cheek. My hands looked unsightly next to her fresh and flawless skin. "How?" I asked. "How have you escaped the ravages of time?"

"Now that you know," she said, "do you want me to leave?"

"And leave me in a world full of gloom and despair?"

"Gloom and despair?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did."

"You did?"

"Mr. B.," said Margie, "may I interject?"

"Certainly," I said.

"She told us, but we passed it off as an overactive imagination."

Stories of English farm life, London society, the French countryside, ocean voyages, and madhouses, came rushing back into my mind. _Was all that true?_ "How long have you known?"

"Frankly, I'm not at all sure just what I know, but last night I had a little chat with a certain Blanche Cumberland."

"As did I."

"As you know, Emily's lack of development has been a concern."

"Of course, we've discussed it often."

"Thus the numerous visits to Dr. Frankenstein," murmured Emily.

"Dr. Frankenstein?" I asked.

"She's joking," said Margie. "His name is Franken."

"Ah."

"Are we assuming Blanche Cumberland's story is true?"

"But Emily…" I began.

"Perhaps we should interview another witness?"

"Do you know of one?"

"It just so happens, I have a name and address."

"Where did you get it?"

"From Blanche Cumberland, of course."

"Who…?" asked Emily.

"Lucy O'Callaghan."

"A Lucy I know, but the surname is unfamiliar to me."

"How far?" I asked.

"Not far at all," said Margie.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

"Do we not have to work?" asked Emily.

"We'll take the morning off."

"We can do that?"

"Of course. I'm the boss."

A few hours later, after breakfast, I parked my Pierce-Arrow in the driveway of a small house in a less affluent part of town. A slender woman, in her late-thirties or early forties, with bright red hair, opened the door when we knocked. When she saw Emily, she shrieked and fell to her knees, embracing Emily and kissing her. Tears flowed freely down her freckled cheeks. "Emily, my little sweetheart," she cried, "I didn't think I would ever see you again." This tender reunion touched my heart. Her love for Emily was genuine.

"Mademoiselle Lucy," said Emily, "did you marry?"

"I sure did," said Lucy, drying her eyes with her apron. "Can you believe it?"

"Why should I not?"

"We won't go into that." Quickly rising, she grabbed Emily's hand, and asked, "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Oui," said Emily, gesturing toward us with her free hand. "Monsieur Ogden Brockmeyer, my guardian, and Mademoiselle Margery Steadman, my governess. Madame Lucy O'Callaghan."

"Doesn't that sound grand," said Lucy, with a smile. "Come in, come in, I'll brew up some tea, or perhaps you would prefer coffee."

"Coffee," said Margie and I together, as we followed her inside.

"I will help you," said Emily.

"I think Erin wants to play," said Lucy.

"Erin?"

A shy little girl, with a mop of bright red hair, holding a dolly in her arms, was peeking around a corner.

"Your daughter?" asked Emily.

"Can't you tell?" asked Lucy, with a laugh.

Emily and Erin ran off to play while Margie and I made ourselves comfortable in the living room. Lucy went to the kitchen. When she returned with the coffee, I began the conversation. "Last night we heard the most remarkable story," I said.

"Did you?" asked Lucy, pouring coffee into our cups.

"From Blanche Cumberland," added Margie.

"Ah."

"Lucy," I said, "may I call you Lucy?"

"Please do," she said, taking a seat.

"When did you first meet Emily?"

"About twenty-five years ago. I was a maid at Sunnydale at the time. She swept in and stole our hearts."

"She has a way of doing that."

"Indeed," said Margie.

"Ten years ago," I said, "I found her in the orphanage."

"In the orphanage?" said Lucy. "I thought she was living with the Cumberlands."

"After Blanche's husband was murdered…"

"Murdered?"

"Yes, murdered. After he was murdered, Blanche was, how shall I say this? Cleaning house. And since Emily is not related to her in any way, she looked to find a position which included room and board. An affluent couple with a small child were happy to take Emily in as a tutor. Apparently, it didn't work out. I asked Emily, but she refuses to talk about it."

"And you found her in the orphanage and brought her to your home. How noble."

"Not exactly. It was her knitting that brought us together."

"Ah yes, her knitting. I still have my scarf and sweater, and wear them every winter."

"Some of our most popular items. Emily can't knit them fast enough."

"You can't rush genius."

"And I won't let her work more than six hours a day."

"Admirable. Such kind consideration is rare in the world of business."

"Emily is not your only knitter," said Margie.

"True, true," I said, "but Emily has made a name for herself. My customers will pay top dollar for a genuine Charbonneau sweater."

"I'd better have mine insured," said Lucy.

It was witty quip, in my opinion, so I obliged her with a chuckle. Margie followed suit.

"Has she planted a garden?" asked Lucy.

"Has she ever," I said.

"A garden to rival the Garden of Eden," said Margie.

"While at Sunnydale, she planted one every year," said Lucy. "It was always the most amazing thing. She's got the magic touch, to be sure. I would give anything for just a little bit of that magic. My garden is pathetically embarrassing."

"Perhaps Emily will share some of her magic with you," said Margie.

"What is this about magic?" asked Emily. She and Erin had just reentered the room.

"We were talking about your garden," I said.

"There is no magic. It is simply hard work and attention to detail."

"So said Mozart to the struggling pianist," said Lucy.

"Hardly applicable."

"Not from where I'm sitting."

"My accomplishments are diminished when attributed to magic."

It was like I was hearing her for the first time. "My word!" I exclaimed. "Such a vocabulary!"

"Mr. B.," said Margie, "you've been listening to her for the last ten years."

"But my eyes…"

"Your eyes see child, no bigger than little Erin."

"And my ears hear the words of an educated adult."

"With the voice of a child…"

"It's incongruous."

"Incongruous, indeed," said Emily. "You are most certainly exaggerating."

"Mommy," said Erin, "what are they talking about?"

"They're talking about Emily," said Lucy.

"What are they saying?"

"Emily is a genius."

Emily rolled her eyes, in a cute way.

"What's a genius?" asked Erin.

"Someone smarter than everyone else."

It seems Emily had had enough. She quickly changed the subject.

"Erin," she said, "would you like to come to my house and play with mon chien?"

"With what?" asked Erin.

"Pardon. My dog Jacques."

"You have a dog?"

"I do. He is getting older now, but I am sure he would want to play with you."

The little girl turned her bright blue eyes on her mother and asked, eagerly, "Can I?"

"Certainly," said Lucy. "I would like to come too."

"You can ride with us," I said. "There's plenty of room."

In times past, I was the picture of pragmatism. Fairy-tales and fantasy stories were just that, stories. Now, due to one enchanting little girl, I've had a change of heart. There just might be something to those stories after all.


	20. Chapter 20

The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty

It was ten years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. She was sitting on a park-bench, knitting. A wide-brimmed hat, trimmed with flowers, covered her little head. Under the hat, curly hair framed a cute little round face. Her blouse was white with a little pink tie at the collar. The toes of her tiny pink shoes peeked out from under the bottom of a long pink skirt. A woman sat to her right, but from my point of view at the time, a mere shadow in the background.

I tried to ignore the girl, but my eyes, with a mind of their own, kept pivoting in her direction. In the third grade, infatuation was something new to me. I didn't even think it was possible to like a girl. This unfamiliar feeling grew stronger and stronger until I was overwhelmed. With no will of my own, like a puppet, I walked unsteadily in her direction. "Excuse me," I said. "Would you like to play on the seesaw?"

She looked up at me, cocking her head to the side. After a tense moment, she said, "Okay."

I ran to the seesaw. She walked slowly, very slowly, carrying a cloth-bag over her shoulder. When she finally arrived, she took a hanky out of her bag and wiped the seat. "No jumping off, s'il vous plaît," she said, wagging a finger at me.

I promised I wouldn't.

Up and down, up and down we went. I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

"Haven't seen you at school," I said.

"I do not attend school," she said. "I work."

"Nah ah. You're just a kid."

"Use the word 'child', s'il vous plaît. A kid is a small goat."

"You sound like just my teacher."

"Merci."

"What does that mean?"

"It means thank you."

"Why don't you just say thank you?"

"A habit, I suppose."

"You're weird."

She gave a little shrug. "C'est la vie."

I didn't know what to make of her. Nobody I knew talked that way.

"You say you're not a kid?" I asked.

"Oui," she said.

"But you look like a kid and sound like a kid. You got to be a kid."

"Do not judge a book by its cover."

"Kids don't work. Kids go to school."

"I work and do not attend school."

"If you work, what do you do?"

"Knit."

"That's not a job."

"Well, you know everything."

"What do you knit?"

"Scarves, sweaters..."

"And they pay you?"

"That is the point after all."

The seesaw was boring me. I looked around for something else to do. "Wanna climb on the jungle gym?"

"No," she said. "I will not climb in a skirt."

"The slide?"

She shook her head, fluttering her curls.

"The swings?"

"That will do."

She wiped the seat on the swing with a hanky. I had never seen anyone do that before. "Do you need some help getting on?" I asked. She was small and the seat was high. "I can do it," she said, reaching up and pulling herself onto the seat by the chains.

"Do you want me to push you?"

"That will not be necessary."

I wanted to swing fast and high, but she would only go slow and low, so I matched her pace and continued my interrogation.

"If you work, why are you here at the playground?"

"I enjoy working outside when the weather is pleasant."

"And you don't go to school?"

"No. I have never been to school."

"Can't be very smart then."

"That is a misconception."

"A what?"

"You go to school and you do not know what misconception is? Go find a dictionary and look it up."

I didn't like her tone, so I jumped off the swing and walked away. A few minutes later, after second thoughts, I looked back. She was no longer there.

After a night of what-ifs, I returned to the park in search of her. Again, I found her knitting on the bench. The same woman was sitting next to her, reading a book. I will try to describe the woman. Let me think just how to do it. Okay, I got it. Do you remember that Wizard of Oz movie? The one in the theaters a couple years back? Anyway, there was this really mean woman in the movie. No, I don't mean the woman with the green face, I mean the woman who took Dorothy's dog. That's what she looks like. Recently, out of curiosity, I asked if that was her in the movie. She just laughed and said no. By the way, her name is Margie, and she's not mean at all.

So I walked up to the girl and said hello, and she said bonjour to me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Emily," she said, "and what is yours?"

"Tim. Do you want to play?"

"No, I am busy."

"Are you still sore at me?"

"I was never, as you say, sore at you. You were sore at me."

"Do you like ice cream?"

"Certainly."

"I get an allowance."

"Will you spend it on ice cream?"

"For both of us."

"There is something you should know: I am not a child."

"You said that before."

"I thought I might get through to you. Silly me."

"Does that mean you don't want ice cream?"

"No, that is not what it means. I do not want any misconceptions."

"I looked up the word."

"Then you understand."

We walked to a nearby soda fountain and split a banana split. Margie sat at another table and had coffee. We were getting along fine when we were suddenly surrounded by a bunch of kids from the neighborhood. They were all over us like honey and… and something. "Who is she? Where is she from? Is she your girlfriend?" I didn't want to answer any questions. I wanted them to go away. Emily was my friend. I saw her first.

Later, at home, I asked Mom, "Do midgets look like little kids?"

"What brought this on?" asked Mom.

"There's this little girl at the park, says she doesn't go to school, says she works for a living."

"And you think she's a midget?"

"Don't know."

"Timmy, midgets are just small people. When they become adults, they look like little adults."

"Guess she's not a midget then."

"Maybe I should meet this girl."

The next day, Mom and I went to the park. I introduced her to Emily and Margie.

"May we join you?" asked Mom.

"Oui," said Emily, moving her bag from the bench to the ground. "I will make room."

Mom sat next to Emily, in the spot where I wanted to be. I had to make do with a couple of inches on the end.

"Timmy was telling me about you," said Mom.

"Oh?" said Emily.

"He seemed to think you were a midget."

"Mo-om!" I cried. "Why'd you have to say that?"

"You did, didn't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"I suppose I am, in a way," said Emily.

"In a way?" asked Mom.

"I am as big as I am ever going to be."

"How do you know?"

"Perhaps I should answer," said Margie. "I have been Emily's friend and companion for twenty years."

"Twenty years?" said Mom. "Come on now, you're putting me on."

"No, I'm not, but I understand your point of view. It is hard to believe."

"You're saying this child is twenty?"

"Oh no, she's much older than that."

"Ridiculous!"

"I used to think so too."

Mom was getting upset. "Alright, out with it. This is a joke, right?"

"It's not a joke." Margie was calm, which seemed to infuriate Mom even more.

"This has gone on long enough!" I recognized that voice. It was the voice reserved for when I was bad. "You've had your laugh. Come on, admit it. It's a joke."

"It's not a joke, ma'am, and I'm not laughing."

"You're going to stick with this ridiculous story?"

"Yes, I am."

Mom jumped to her feet, her face was red, her fists clenched. "Well! Of all the... I think you're lying! And I don't think it's funny! Come, Timmy!" She grabbed my arm and dragged me away. "I forbid you to associate with these people." That was all I needed. From that day on, I took every opportunity to associate with those people. By the way, when ten years went by, and Emily still hadn't grown, Mom began to rethink her position.

Adolescence was an awkward time for me. It seemed like I didn't fit in anywhere. I wasn't athletic, smart or swanky, so my opportunities for friendship were limited. However, the one person I knew I could talk to was Emily. She was always nice, and never called me shrimp, shorty or four eyes like the other kids. Now and then, she would correct my grammar and stuff, but not in a mean way. Emily and Margie were only at the park during the summer months, and then just once or twice a week. I didn't know where they lived (a man always picked them up in a fancy car), so I kept my eye out and took the opportunity when it arose. It was worth it, believe me. Those few happy hours sustained me throughout the years.

Today, I am on my way to boot camp. Yesterday, I said goodbye to Emily and Margie. We sat together on the bench where we first met and had so many interesting conversations. "Tim," said Emily, "promise you will come home again. I knew a boy like you during the last war. He did not come home. It was such a sad, sad time. I cried many tears. So many did not come home. I am afraid this war will be the same."

"The last war?" I said. "You mean World War One?"

"Oui. That is the war."

"My dad fought in that war."

"Did he come home?"

"If he didn't, I wouldn't be here."

"Très bon. I am happy for you. Now you must come back so you can send your son off to the next war."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I have known many a soldier in my time, so eager to be heroes. Ah, but you need not listen to my ramblings."

"I'm sure everything will be fine."

"I hope so."

She knitted a scarf and gave it to me. I have it draped around my neck as I'm heading off to who knows where on this bus. While I'm wrapping up this entry into my journal, it's caressing my cheek, reminding me of my sweet little friend.


	21. Chapter 21

The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty One

Large leafy trees and utility poles raced by. Wires stretched out like lines drawn by a child, trailing on and on and on. The engine and tires made droning noises, not unlike a swarm of bees. Ogden stared intently at the road ahead, hands gripping tightly to the wheel. I could only assume there was a road, circumstantial evidence let me know it was there, but when I gazed out of the window, all I could see were trees, poles, wires and sky.

Our destination: New York City. The purpose: a business conference. If you are in the fashion industry, as Ogden has been for many, many years, you will need to connect with the city in one way or another. Most of the big designers are there.

The war was over, and Ogden was bringing in a new line. During the war years, his factory produced army uniforms. Now with peace and the hope of prosperity, excitement and optimism were the order of the day. I could see it in his face, and hear it in his voice.

Even at my age, I am not allowed to stay at home alone. I was given a choice: accompany Margie to Schenectady, or accompany Ogden to New York City. Now, I have nothing against Margie's aunt, c'est une douce dame, I merely thought la grande ville would be more interesting. Besides, Margie needed time to herself. La familiarité engendre le mépris, or so they say.

"Manhattan," Ogden called out. "It won't be long now." Extremely tall buildings loomed. Raucous noises filled my ears. Excitement and anxiety threatened to overwhelm me. To keep my hands from shaking, I clasped them together on my lap. Ogden pulled his motorcar up to the entrance of the fanciest of fancy hotels. A man in uniform opened the passenger side door and offered me a gloved hand. I took his hand and hopped out as ladylike as I could manage. Another uniformed man took the keys from Ogden and drove the motorcar away.

Taking my hand, Ogden led me through a glass door into a lobby three stories high with gigantic staircases and gold trim in every conceivable location. I had never seen anything like it, or even imagined such a place could exist. A crowd was gathering near the elevators while a string quartet played Mozart (ma musique préférée), barely heard amidst the buzz of conversation.

The elevator carried us to a conference room somewhere high up in the building. I do not know just how high. I was lost amongst the giants and could not see the numbers. When the elevator door opened, and the occupants dispersed, a large glimmering room made of glass and steel appeared before my eyes. A long glass table was situated in the middle, with smaller glass tables set up all around. Floor to ceiling windows revealed a stunning view of the city. People of all ages, shapes and sizes were milling about, laughing and chatting. Ogden was greeted with hearty handshakes and good-natured slaps on the back. Like I said before, excitement and optimism were the order of the day.

The first part of the meeting contained a lot of mind-numbing numbers and charts. I lost interest quickly. When the beancounters finished their presentation, Ogden woke me with a nudge. The participants were then ushered down elevators and led through a maze of hallways to a theater for a fashion show. The show featured both men and women models. As an 18th century girl, I still find it hard to comprehend and accept 20th century mores. Not long ago, a bare ankle was considered scandalous. Now, I cannot go anywhere without seeing painted faces and revealing clothes. Where will it all lead?

After the show, we were ushered into a lounge for a cocktail party. Jazz music was playing in the background. A woman in her forties, or thereabouts, and pretty once, I should think, latched on to Ogden. Her dress was flashy, her manner, showy. When she deigned to notice me, she said, "What an adorable child. Ooo, I just want to pinch those chubby little cheeks."

Suddenly afraid, I took a step back.

"And so old-fashioned," she said to Ogden. "Do you dress her?"

"No," he said. "She dresses herself."

"I am not as old-fashioned as I used to be," I said. "A hundred years ago, it took me almost an hour to don my petticoats."

Ogden laughed nervously. "She loves old novels. You know, Jane Austen and the like."

"Charming," said the woman

An old man tapped me on the shoulder. He was small (for a man) and thin, smartly dressed, and walked with the help of a cane. His wrinkled and time-worn face wore a pleasant smile. "Pardon me," he said. "We haven't been introduced. You are…?"

"Emily Charbonneau."

"Julius Morgan."

"Bonjour."

"I was noticing your sweater. Is it handmade?"

"Oui, Monsieur, I fashioned it."

"Lovely."

Ogden must have overheard. "I've been selling Emily's creations for years," he said.

"Years?" Monsieur Morgan raised a bushy eyebrow.

"She's slightly older than she appears."

"I see. The baby-face had me fooled."

At this point, the woman turned Ogden around and regained his full attention.

"Does he give you a good percentage?" asked Monsieur Morgan.

"Oui," I said, "but I put it into savings. Ogden provides everything I need."

"And what is your relationship to Ogden?"

"He is my guardian and friend."

"I thought he might be your grandfather."

"If only he were."

"You have the cutest little accent. From where do you hail?"

"France. Barfleur to be exact."

"Oh, I do love France."

"As do I."

"It used to be such a wonderful place."

"The war is over, Monsieur. Ma Chère France will rise from the ashes and be beautiful again."

"Vive la France!" he cried, flourishing his cane.

"Vive la France!" I cried as well.

In the excitement of the moment, I was tempted to sing 'La Marseillaise', but decided against it.

I found an empty table, and climbed into a chair. Ogden and the woman joined me. A handsome young waiter placed a small glass in front of me. I held it up to my nose and sniffed. "What is it?" I asked.

"A Shirley Temple," he said. "Don't worry, it's nonalcoholic."

I took a sip. "Ginger ale and..."

"Grenadine."

"Sweet."

"Like you."

"How do you know?"

"I can tell."

As he was walking away, he looked back and gave me a wink.

The party dragged on and on. _I will go to the lobby and listen to Mozart,_ I said to myself; then thought again, _No, no, I must not. I will most certainly get lost_. Now and then, I would glance over at Ogden and the woman. _She is awfully chatty_, I was thinking. _What could she possibly be talking about?_ Have you ever felt lonely in a crowd? Out of all the people in the room, the waiter was the only one to take notice of me. He returned often with drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and kind words. He said to me, "You remind me of my little sister."

"You treat her well, n'est-ce pas?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. As Grandpa likes to say, she's the apple of my eye."

"A most fortunate girl."

"I could introduce you, if you like."

"Je suis désolé, we are only in town for one night."

"Oh well, it was just a thought."

The crowd was thinning out, and the woman showed no signs of stopping. In all my years, I have never seen anyone talk so much. At long last, when I was beginning to despair, she stood up abruptly, said goodbye, and walked away - just like that. Ogden looked over at me. "I didn't want to be impolite," he said, smiling sheepishly.

"You are the most patient of men."

"Either that or a coward."

"Ne sois pas absurde, Ogden. You are kind and generous to a fault, and I would have you no other way."

Having visited the city many times before, Ogden knew the best restaurants. The restaurant he chose was all glitz and glamour, right out of a Hollywood movie. The staff were young and beautiful and impeccably dressed, trained to make every guest feel like a movie star.

A handsome Maître d' in a tuxedo escorted us to a table, elegantly set. He asked, "Shall I put something on the chair for the young lady?" This was a predicament not new to me. _Do I eat comfortably or retain my dignity?_ was the question I was asking myself. In the end, I chose comfort. Raising a hand in the air, he signaled to someone on the other side of the room. A young man rushed over with a small, smooth-edged wooden box, about the size of a phonebook. He set the box on the chair. The Maître d' lifted me onto the box, and pushed my chair in up close to the table.

The food and drinks were brought to the table with panache. The waiter, who resembled Rudolph Valentino, asked, "Shall I cut up your steak, miss?" Of course, I am perfectly capable of cutting up my own steak; but it seemed to make him happy, so I let him.

While we were enjoying our meal, Ogden and I talked of everyday things, then I had to go and put my foot in it. "Would you rather not be dining with a glamorous woman?" I asked. "Such as…"

"No," he said, curtly.

His tone should have been a clue, but sometimes I am a little less than observant. "But surely there is a woman to interest you."

A sigh escaped his lips.

"I have hit upon a sore subject, n'est-ce pas? We will talk of…"

He blurted out, "I was almost married once."

"Oh?"

"She was killed when a train derailed on the way to St. Louis."

"Killed?"

"Yes."

Suddenly, I felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Why did I not know? "Am I so selfish?" I said. "We have known each other for thirty..."

"Now, now, my dear," he said, "don't worry yourself. You are not at all selfish. I just don't talk about it."

_He was hurt so much that he never considered another woman? Jacques was the same, I remember. Love must be more powerful than I ever imagined._

"What about you?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever had a boyfriend?"

"Oh, little boys like me for a time, then they grow up."

"Little boys like you?"

"I am not without my charms."

"Of course, you are quite charming, my dear."

"However, they grow up and lose interest."

"I get the idea."

"Ogden, I have been wondering: Is it proper for an old lady to play with little boys?"

Heads turned at the sound of Ogden's loud guffaw, which shook him all over. When he regained control of himself, he said, "Your secret is safe with me, old lady. Ha ha ha ha..."

After dinner, we went to a Broadway theater and watched Annie Get Your Gun. He laughed at the most inappropriate times. During the ride to our hotel, I could hear him chuckling. The next morning at breakfast, he was still laughing.

Back home in Binghamton, he began to call me old lady. He would say, "Pass the salt, old lady," or to his friends, "Let me ask the old lady," and never failed to see the humor in it.

I have no one to blame but myself.


	22. Chapter 22

The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty Two

War is an unpleasant business, to put it mildly. A soldier needs some hope to get him through, a reason to keep fighting. Of course, my parents were reason enough, I'm sure; and yet, it was my little friend's face I would see when I dreamed at night. The men in my unit teased me because I talked in my sleep. "Emily, Emily, oh, Emily," they would say, kissing their pillows. I didn't take it personally. They were just trying to cover up their own fears, and more than ready to hurry home to that someone special of their own.

Returning to Binghamton, I was not the same man who had left four years before. For one thing, I didn't have pimples. For another, I had courage; and having courage, I intended to find and marry the woman I loved. When I told Mom, she was appalled. In the living room, with a hand to her mouth, she was giving me that look. "You can't marry a little girl," she said. "It's scandalous."

"But she's not a little girl," I insisted.

"She walks like a little girl and talks like a little girl…"

"But I've known her for fifteen years."

"Doesn't matter. She's little and she's a girl."

"But she's just the right size."

"Just the right size? What are you talking about? She's barely four feet tall."

"I'm not much taller."

"Have you lost your mind? You're a good foot and a half taller."

"That's not so much."

"You tower over her. Is that what you want?"

"Men do marry little women, you know. A whole book was written about it."

"She's not a woman, Timmy. She's a girl. G-I-R-L, girl. Can't you get that through your…"

"But she's so nice."

"She is nice, I grant you that."

"And I love her."

"That may very well be, but you can't…"

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't."

"Watch me," I said, as I marched out the door.

"Mark my words," she called out, "You will regret it."

Mom's opposition only made me more determined. In my mind, Emily and I were the modern day Romeo and Juliet. As luck would have it, I found her easily. She was sitting next to Margie, her governess, on our own special bench at the park. The memories came flooding back, making me smile. Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent just chatting with her on that bench.

Margie stifled a laugh when she saw me approaching with flowers and chocolates. After whispering something to Emily, she got up and left, and found some hidden vantage point to watch, I'm sure.

Wasting no time, I dropped to my knees and proposed. Emily turned me down point blank.

"In all my years," she said, "you are the only man to ever propose to me. I suppose it had to happen sometime. I will not hold it against you, I promise. The war has twisted your thinking. C'est tragique. Tim, get up and sit next to me."

Utterly dejected, I sat beside her.

"I care about you," she said, "and it is because I care about you that I have to say no."

"If you cared about me, you would say yes."

"Not everything you desire is good for you."

"I thought you loved me."

"Nous sommes amis, that is all."

My heart was breaking. "Why?" I cried. "Why won't you marry me? Is it because I'm short? Is it the glasses?"

Ignoring my idiodic questions, she put forth a question of her own. "Tim, what do you seek in a wife?"

"What do I seek?" Thoughtfully rubbing my chin, I gave her question due consideration. _What do I seek?_ "Let's see… I guess... Someone to take care of the home, raise the children…"

'Viola!"

"Huh?"

"You have hit the proverbial nail on the head."

"What nail?"

"Mon ami, think about your words."

"My words? What words?" Frantically, I retraced my steps. "Take care of the home, raise… Oh! Children. You don't want children. Don't you like children?"

"Of course I like children. Ce n'est pas le problème. Mon dieu! Why am I telling you this?! It is the… the… the process. I cannot… you know… consummate..."

"Soup?"

"Huh?"

"Nothin'."

"Tim, has no one told you about the birds and the bees?"

"The birds and the bees?" It finally hit me, like a howitzer. "You mean…?"

"Oui."

"You can't…?"

"Um hmm."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

My hand went to my forehead. I let out a sigh, realizing I had just dodged a bullet. Emily smiled, opened the box of chocolates and held it out to me. "Bon appétit," she said. We ate the whole box.


	23. Chapter 23

The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty Three

It's early morning. I'm sipping coffee on the veranda. A fragrant breeze blows in off the Mediterranean, rustling the trees surrounding our rented villa. Emily, my sole responsibility, is sleeping. It's been over a year, and I still can't believe my luck. I was working in the laundry of a Binghamton hotel when Grandma Zoe called. Her sister Margie passed away and they were looking to fill her position. Believe me, it's the cushiest job in the world. Everyday, I pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.

After crossing the ocean on a luxury liner (both of us afraid of flying), Emily and I journeyed through parts of southern England and northern France in search of her past. Unfortunately, the family farm in Somerset county, the homes in Glastonbury, London and Calais, and the café in Barfleur are long gone. She didn't waste any time crying over it, however. It was what she expected. Traveling south from Paris, after a lovely stay in that lovely city, we left what remained of her history behind. Yesterday, we arrived in Nice, and rented this villa for a month. Where we go from here is anybody's guess.

"Bonjour, Susan." A small child in a white nightdress and pink robe climbs into the seat next to me. Her little round face, with sleepy half-closed eyes, wears a faint smile. I grab a hairbrush and attack the tangles in her curly auburn hair.

"Sightseeing today?" I ask.

"Oui."

"I will lay out the safari outfit with the sturdy boots."

"And the pith-helmet?"

"Of course."

"Will I not look silly?"

"You'll look adorable, trust me."

She lifts a ceramic teapot and pours some steaming hot tea into a matching cup. It's a combination of herbs she mixes herself. Don't ask me what they are. I can never remember.

"Maybe we'll go to the beach," I say. "I'll bring that cute little bikini I bought for you in Paris."

"Why did you buy it?" she says with a pout. "I told you before, I will never wear such a thing."

"Why not?"

"Modesty prevents me."

"When you see what the other little girls are wearing, or not wearing, you might change your mind."

"Never."

"You said the same thing about pants, you know. Now you wear them all the time."

"Pants do not leave the body exposed."

"Depends on the pants, I suppose. Some pants…"

"We must find an herbalist today."

Apparently, she doesn't want to talk about pants. This herbalist business is not new to me. Searching for an herbalist is the first thing we do in every city, if only to talk shop. Nobody knows more about herbs than Emily. You should see the jaws drop when she goes on and on about teas, tonics and tinctures. I laugh just thinking about it.

"We'll ask around," I say. "There must be a market..."

Snipping sounds interrupt my train of thought. A pair of shears appears first, then the head of a man pops up over the hedge. His weathered face is showing intense concentration. Smoke from his cigarette curls around his head like a halo. "Maybe he knows," says Emily. She hops out of her chair and skips toward him. "Monsieur, Monsieur!" I gulp down the last bit of coffee and follow. If anything happens to her, the folks at Brockmeyer Inc. will have my head.

* * *

After a successful trip to an open-air market, Emily and I are enjoying a meal on the veranda. A pitcher of iced tea, and two glasses, sit on the table. Condensation drips down the sides, leaving small puddles. A large colorful umbrella is shading us from the sun. Rustling sounds catch my attention. Little eyes are peeking at us through the hedge. My grasp of the French language is limited, but I'll do my best to translate. Forgive me if I get some words wrong. "Come in and join us," I call out. Then I hear, "Mama, Mama," fading off into the distance.

A sandpiper alights on the veranda. He stares at us. We stare at him. Time seems to stand still. Movement in the hedges scares him away. An attractive woman, short and slightly plump, with long dark hair and dark eyes, peers at us over the hedge. I call out, "Hello."

"Hello," she says. "I hope Antoine was not bothering you."

"Not at all. We invited him over."

"Now I see what this is all about, you little rascal. There's a pretty little girl over here." Obviously, she's talking to Antoine.

"Will you join us for lunch?" I say. "We have plenty."

The woman, and a little boy who looks very much like her, squeeze through the hedge, and join us at the table. "I am Rosalie," she says, "and this is my son Antoine."

"I'm Susan, and this is Emily."

"We need more plates," says Emily, hopping off the chair and hurrying into the house.

"You must have just arrived," says Rosalie. "I don't remember…"

"Yesterday.".

"American?"

"New York."

"Antoine, do not go into the house uninvited."

He is tip-toeing toward the door. "I thought she might need help," he says.

"It's okay," I say. "Go on in."

A huge grin spreads across his face. He hurries inside.

"Are you the child's mother?" asks Rosalie.

"Nanny."

"And her parents?"

"No parents."

"Oh?"

"Died when she was a baby."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah."

"This isn't cheap, who is..."

"An inheritance."

"How nice."

Antoine and Emily return with plates and glasses. Brimming with excitement, he scoots his chair up next to hers. Rosalie dishes out the chicken, bread and salad. Emily pours the tea. Rosalie takes a sip. "Peppermint?"

"And a few other ingredients," says Emily.

"And you made it?"

"Yes."

"Lovely flavor."

"Thank you."

"She made the salad," I say, " and I grilled the chicken. We bought the bread fresh from the bakery."

"Nothing like fresh baked bread."

"I agree. There's nothing like it."

* * *

The beach is crowded and hot. Emily and I are lounging in the shade of a large umbrella. The bikini remains in the bag. She is wearing a plain one-piece with khaki shorts. A large inflated ball comes out of nowhere and strikes her on the head. "Emily, Emily," cries Antoine. "Play with me, play with me." She jumps to her feet, grabs the ball and chases after him. Rosalie takes up the vacated spot. "Hello again," she says.

"Don't tell me," I say. "Antoine insisted."

"He can't stop talking about her."

This happens in every town. Little boys gravitate to her. It's not a conscious effort on her part, believe me. She gives them little encouragement.

"My husband would like you and Emily to come sailing with us tomorrow," says Rosalie. "Will you?"

"I'll have to ask Emily."

"Ask me what?" says Emily. She and Antoine fall in under the umbrella, panting.

"Will you come sailing with us tomorrow?" asks Rosalie.

"Just me?"

"No, no, both of you, of course."

"Of course, we would be happy to join you."

"It will be early, before it gets too hot."

"No problem at all."

* * *

Baths are done. Nightgowns and robes are donned. Emily and I are relaxing on the veranda, staring at the full moon. "Verdict?" I ask.

"We will stay for the length of the lease," says Emily.

"A month in Nice. It's like a dream."

"We could stay longer, if you like."

"Antoine would be happy if we did."

"Antoine?"

"He's madly in love with you."

"A mild infatuation, I assure you."

"Just like every Tom, Dick and Harry."

"Who are those fellows?"

"It's just an expression."

"Meaning?"

"You leave behind a trail of tears."

"Oh, how you exaggerate. I leave behind a few childhood memories, nothing more."

"You're right, of course."

"And Antoine will most likely grow up and marry a woman like his mother."

"Like his mother?"

"You know, full-chested."

I laugh. Rosalie is well-endowed, to be sure.

Emily yawns. "Perhaps we should retire," she says. "We will need to be up with the sun."

"Speaking of the sun," I say, "I hope there's some shade on the boat. Even if we leave early, we won't return until it's high in the sky."

"We will bring our floppy hats."

"And sunglasses."

"Towels and long sleeve shirts."

"And the bikini."

"No, no, no. No bikini."

"Antoine would like it, I'm sure."

"Why? Why would he like it?"

"Because you're so tiny and cute."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Why do you not wear a bikini?"

"To spare the general public."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm much too fat."

"No, no, no, you are not fat."

"Oh, but I am."

"My friend, you do not seem to realize how svelte you have become."

"Me? Svelte? It is to laugh."

"But you are."

"If that's true, and I'm not saying it is, it's all thanks to you."

"No, no, no. I only made a few suggestions. You put them into practice."

"But you gave me the knowledge and motivation."

"But you put in the work."

"Emily, why won't you take the credit? You deserve it."

"Credit is not important to me."

"It is to me. If it wasn't for you, I'd still be that fat slob working in that horrid laundry room."

"Are you crying?"

"M-maybe."

Climbing into my lap, she lays her tiny head on my chest. This takes me by surprise. It's the first time she's shown any real affection. I don't mean she's cold, far from it. She's really quite warm and friendly to everyone. The thing is… How can I put this? Suddenly, I feel like more than just a nanny.

"I loved Margie like a sister," she says, "and no one can truly replace her. But you are not a replacement. You are unique, and fun, and all I could ask for in a companion - or nanny, as you like to say. In other words, you are just right the way you are."

With a grateful heart, I hold her in my arms and let the tears flow.


	24. Chapter 24

The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty Four

When Emily was eight years old, she loved to frolic in the meadows and wander through the woods near her uncle's farm. On a day in May, when she was out gathering flowers, she chanced upon an old worn out cottage. Sitting in a rickety old chair by the door was an old woman, extremely thin and wrinkled with a face like a hatchet with a squint. "Good morning, child," said the old woman. "What brings you out this way?"

"Flowers," said Emily. "Would you like some?"

"I would indeed."

Not easily frightened in those days, Emily skipped over to the old woman and gave her the flowers.

"What do you charge for these flowers?" asked the old woman.

"Charge?" asked Emily.

"Perhaps a coin?"

"Oh, you don't have to pay me. I will gladly give them to you."

"What a sweet unselfish child. Perhaps I will grant you a wish."

"A wish?"

"Would you like to marry a handsome prince when you grow up?"

"I don't want to grow up."

"And why not, pray tell?"

"Grown up people are busy and worried and angry and mean and greedy and..."

"Would you remain a child forever?"

"Oh yes. Yes I would, gladly."

"I know of a way."

Emily thought the old woman must be teasing her. "If you know of a way, why don't you use it yourself?"

"It's too late for me, I'm afraid."

"Too late?"

"You see, it freezes you where you are."

"Oh, I don't want to freeze." Emily hugged her little shoulders.

"What a dear child. I mean, you would remain the age that you are. If you are eight, you will always be eight. If you are twenty, you will always be twenty, and so on."

"I think I understand."

"Of course, it will cost you."

"I thought it was for the flowers."

"Forget the flowers!"

Startled, Emily jumped and tried to run away; but the old woman grabbed the hem of her dress, and held her back. With her most ingratiating smile, which isn't easy without teeth, the old woman said, calmly, "What I ask is neither dangerous nor difficult. You must simply return to this cottage everyday until the end of summer."

"Why?" asked Emily.

"I must pass on my knowledge before I pass on."

Without thinking it through (and what child ever does?), Emily agreed to the request. Most days, she brought her cousin Clara with her. However, she didn't tell Clara about the bargain. She simply said, "This lady will give us treats," and Clara would follow right along. What child doesn't like treats?

Throughout the summer, the old woman taught Emily all about herbs, tonics, tinctures, essential oils and everything you might find in a modern day health food store. In addition, Emily tended the garden, gathered firewood and cleaned the cottage. On the last day of summer, she returned alone.

"Now, my child," said the old woman, "it is time to fulfill my end of the bargain. Are you sure you do not wish to grow up?"

"I didn't work all summer for nothing," said Emily.

"This treatment comes with a condition."

"A what?"

"A caveat."

"Such big words."

"Simply speaking, you must remain a virgin."

Now it so happens, Emily had no idea what a virgin was. When the old woman described what a virgin was, and how one loses one's virginity, Emily was appalled. "I certainly don't want to do that!" she said, emphatically.

"In case you change your mind," said the old woman, "there's something I must tell you: If you were to lose your virginity, you would revert to your true age - which would be a horrible shock to the gentleman, I'm sure. Now that you know, do you still wish to proceed?"

Emily didn't hesitate. "Yes, please."

"Very well."

The old woman stood up straight and still, closed her eyes, raised her hands in the air, and remained in that position for some time, mumbling incoherently. Emily watched curiously. Was she supposed to feel something? All of a sudden, the old woman collapsed on the ground in a heap. Emily was at a loss. "Did it work?" she asked. The old woman didn't answer.

Emily crept up to the old woman and touched her arm. The arm was as cold as ice. Emily covered the old woman with a blanket and ran for help.

By then, it was too late.

THE END


End file.
